Somehow, I acquired a dead man’s interrupted life. His grey stone cottage, mid-forest. Books, a barn, blank stationery veined with mold. Curled edge photographs stacked like kindling in a dusty hope chest. They claim me. A rusted horseshoe slumbered in the cook stove. I burnish it with wire, secure its resurrected luck with a trinity of nails …
So in August, I finally made my new year’s writing resolution. Not for the calendar year, dear reader. The academic year. My resolution? To write and post an original microflash every Monday. Three reasons. First, I’m a very slooooow drafter and wanted to practice increasing my productivity. Second, I knew time would shrink even further …
The day after, Birdie bins and washes, shelves detritus of a home upended. Dust clogs her nose. Tickles her eyes. She sneezes. Blinks. Sneezes yet again. Birdie knows dust is partly skin, that skin sloughs and regenerates each moon cycle while her bones and heart require ten years of cycles to renew. By which math, …
Behind three-starred glass, we swirl pinot while my shade approaches the crowded intersection. Mousy hair, thin-soled Keds. A backpack, frayed, beats an awkward tempo as she scans facades and faces. Awaits the signal forward. On green, she crosses to me. Presses palms to mine, reflected. I want to rush into the twilight. To console her. …
My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann 