Category Archives: Deborah A. Upton

I had noticed how Evelyn treated me in front of everyone, mainly how cold she was toward me, but I didn’t say anything about it, even later when we were alone. I just figured it was something that occurred between … Continue reading →

“Are you blind?” Deanna yelled, tension pulsing in her neck. “How can you sit there in one spot all day long,” she was looking at the worn-out recliner her husband sat in, “and watch that damn depressing crap?” She didn’t … Continue reading →

He wasn’t going down the mountain today—besides, he’d much rather stay in the mountain valley, away from the hectic life in the city below. Picking a wrench off the floor, he tried to loosen a bolt under the truck. He … Continue reading →

A young man told me of his going to the core of the ship, a place where not many were allowed to go, describing the darkened room where he slept. “The room had just enough eerie green light to guide … Continue reading →

The man sits at the table glaring at the woman on the other side. Their eyes lock, causing him to scowl. Both of their shoulders tense up. For twenty six years he has been fighting this woman. He clenches the … Continue reading →

Back in the 70s I drove my wife, her niece, and two in-law sisters down to the border to shop. We went in a pickup truck. Up front were me, a sister-in-law, and a niece. In the covered back were … Continue reading →

“He knows what he’s doing. He’s being mean to me,” Marian complained. “No, he doesn’t,” Jamie replied. “His brain is like a sponge with holes in it. He has Alzheimer’s. Don’t you understand what that means? He can’t make connections.” … Continue reading →