Author: Gregory Greenleaf

I am standing in my backyard and looking up into a tree. Beside me is my loyal black Lab, Echo. He is looking up into the same tree.

Not too long ago I came home from my real job and, upon entering my real home, where my real wife and real kids and real pets live, I saw my real wife pulling out of a shopping bag a real plant.

It was while we were returning from a dad and daughters fishing and swimming trip in Woolwich that Molly mentioned that Calliope, the youngest child, was bleeding.

Sometimes the divide between horror and comedy is not so wide that you have to back up several feet and get a running start to jump across, and even then, feel your heel scrape against the emptiness of the chasm below as you land safely on the other side.

I bring a trash bag when I take my dog for walks along Cundy’s Harbor Road. Once I found a giant empty Rubbermaid trash can in the ditch. I used that moment to teach my dog situational irony. Another time I found an iPhone that, by the looks of it, had spent the entire winter in suspended animation. It turned out to be permanent suspended animation.