Glimpses: the Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala
“—A Chinese proverb “I think I might’ve seen pop last night.”
Mark Stover was sitting at the kitchen table across from his mother. Overhead, a single light bulb cast a dull yellow patina, like a coating of dust, over the well-worn linoleum floor, the faded and chipped countertop, and the frayed, red and white checkered tablecloth. Ellen Stover, Mark’s mother, was sitting silently with her hands folded on the table in front of her. Between her forearms was a cup of tea. Although it was no longer steaming, she hadn’t sipped it yet. The overhead light made the skin on the back of her hands look as cracked and pale as the old ceramic teacup. It was almost translucent. Pencil-thin tendons and twisting blue veins stood out in sharp relief beneath her skin as she twisted and twined her fingers together.
“What do you mean?” she said, her voice low and tremulous, a faint whisper.
Mark heaved a sigh as he leaned his chair back on two legs and took a swallow from his beer bottle.
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