Category Archives: Murray Dunlap

Palm of Your Hand by Murray Dunlap

The magic of driving is an activity taken for granted. But a brain injury and vision problems swooped in and took it away. That was three years ago. So now, having entirely lost my patience and sickened of the number of times I have fallen down walking to the grocery store, I have decided to take the ‘driving rehab’ required to be legal to drive, once again. In an hour, they will be here to ‘help’ me with this. Oh to have such a simple activity in the palm of your hand jerked away because someone else ran a red light and seriously impaired my brain…Unfair in an epic fashion. Unfair. But nonetheless, I have to play by the state rules, or no one will be happy. And so I sit, writing of course (as I am a writer), and wait for the palm of my hand to be refilled. I wait and wait, thinking of a time in the future when I will be allowed to drive to see friends all over the country. But really, to drive across the street to the grocery store -if just for that- it will have all been time well spent.


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Devon and Devon by Murray Dunlap

The real story begins when I realize that there is more than one Devon.

Devon A is strikingly beautiful and knows it. She lights a cigarette and lightly swishes the air in her area, creating a swirl of smoke around her.

Devon B does not smoke. Rather, she hides the fact that she is constantly doing cocaine. We all wish she would not, especially her son, but she keeps right on after it. White dust on bathroom counters and odd make-up clip-down bags in her purse. An odd thing to be so well hidden, and yet, so visible. Her son knows it, but does not know what to say or do.

Devon A is a girl I have known for 20 years. We met in college and then, of course, Devon A went off and got married as they all do.

Devon B and coke, however, turned into a different affair altogether. We became entwined with utmost vigor when she left her husband – the father of her son. And so our tryst was heated electricity and sparks galore. But, Devon B decided she should return to the father of her son.

Devon A did not approve of the entire arrangement. In the end, none of us did.

It was with a postcard that I was alerted to the end of everything, and while I was filled with anger, relief is my only reaction to the end of both girls named Devon.

I have not seen either Devon since the postcard.


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