With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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J. W. Major’s work has appeared in Epoch, Georgia Review, and Denver Quarterly. He says he suffers from “writer’s insomnia, the cure for which is writer’s block, where you get no inspiration but lots of sleep.” He lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
I come home one afternoon, in my first year of high school, and immediately go down to the basement, known as the “family room” in what were supposedly better days.
Bob Penny, voted Most Self-Absorbed Hunk by a committee of me, said, I am in my big-boob period, as he pretended to swoon over Lisa Belia. I took his remark to be of the making-me-jealous variety. I didn’t even have to pretend to ignore it, because I was in love with you.
Larry couldn’t stop thinking of Mrs. Foster. He thought he must be in love with her. He never raised his hand in any class except hers. The other teachers didn’t seem to care whether he answered questions or not.