The authorities are coming. The gig is up. I buried a body, forgot about it and am about to get caught. I’m in deep fucking trouble. I stand in my front yard. The location sometimes changes, but here and now, the bones are buried in the boulevard — on city land. I’m like, oh man — not this again. My kids are little. They stand on the couch and look out the window. I want my husband to distract them. I think he does. I’ve got to move the body without anyone seeing me. I must protect my freedom — my kids. It’s urgent, it feels like the pressure of doing 100 years of taxes, but worse. I don’t remember killing anyone, but I feel guilty. I must cover up the evidence. It has to be done. This is an offence I need to outrun — again and again and again.
How to Anglicise a Country: The Strange Story of Hawaii
In 1874, President Ulysses S. Grant hosted the first ever state visit to the United States by a foreign head of state. King David…