Booker La Croix liked nothing better than to put on his best hat, hitch a ride from Huddle Creek up to Baton Rouge, and spend his day off in a dark theatre watching the moving pictures. He paid his seven cents for the ticket, went around the side entrance, and climbed the steps to the balcony. The matinee featured his favorite, Buster Keaton, in The Balloonatic and Our Hospitality, and there would be short movies in-between. It’d be a whole afternoon of laughter, except when he looked over, wishing his sister to be sitting there next to him.

About the Author Michael McGuire was born and raised and has lived in or near much of his life; he divides his time; his horse is nondescript, his dog is dead. Naturally, McGuire regrets not having passed his life in academia, for the alternative has proven somewhat varied, even unpredictable. “McGuire’s writing is hauntingly thoughtful,…

“Yes, dear.” I fake a smile. Gunpowder is not magic. As he walks away, I snip a small piece off the ginger root on my counter and place it between my lips. Sucking on it to calm myself, I mutter, “Odin, give me strength…”

      Xe was an ordinary person, who lived an ordinary life. Xe had a job that didn’t pay quite enough, a smartphone that wasn’t quite new, and paid xer bills on time. Mostly. On the weekends, xe would sometimes go to church, and sometimes, stay home and watch tv with the kids, exhausted from work.

The old house is haunted by you. Dusty sheets cover the furniture and the art like ghosts. Long hallways lit by sconces display portraits of you and your father and other family members I don’t recognize. He was the youngest of a large family. You were his only child. Your face, smiling in the photos taken when you were a child and somber in the ones taken when you were older, watches me, follows me, as I walk through the house for the first time.