by Eric Hendrixson
Even as a child he was like that. In school, during the class on fractions, he told the nun she was a liar and refused to listen. He was suspended for a week. He said, “You can’t have anything part-way.” When October came, he dressed up like a dictator for Halloween.
The Gypsy woman, really Mrs. Robbins from Cameron Street with a quilt on her hips and beads, squinted at his hand. She traced the lines with her index finger, said: “Two careers, three children, a long, safe, happy life, one marriage. Your talent is a slight buff at your pinky finger. The lines do not run deep.”
He left his candy sack in the living room. That night, nobody heard him sneak downstairs. It wasn’t until morning that his mother missed the paring knife. Even at the hospital, he refused to show the doctor his newly-lined palm.
Eric Hendrixson’s first book is Bucket of Face. His most recent publication, “The Ninja’s Wife”, appears in Fireside Press’ Wishful Thinking anthology, which comes out this Monday. He recently moved to Chicago, where he is developing a new appreciation for hot dogs. “I can’t explain it,” he says. “They’re just better here.”
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