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. …
Fifty words, she says. A happy memory from your youth. Hnuh. Too many times I’ve mined that barren childscape. Too long I’ve blamed myself. Instead, memory journeys with my long-gone teenage self to the fount of all my joy. To the only word of fifty I have ever loved. You. *****
Save the children. Save the world. Start with one child. That child. The invisible one. Or the loud one. The awkward one. The one whose smirk and sneer builds walls. The one whose smile bends like a question at your Good Morning. That one. And then that one. Give them a book. Give them a …
The boy saw the man who broke the wishbone and destroyed the universe, but because he was little no one asked the boy anything.
Once, my brother ate an onion whole. I was six, he seven, and partners in harmless crime. Cowpoke hats and cap gun pops our soundtrack. Dared by neighbor boys, a burly sullen group whom he admired, he chewed and heaved, tears raining, while I stood guard. Too late I learned people are onions. Sweet and …
I’m excited to share that my flash fiction “Meanwhile Dragonflies are Dive Bombing My Deck” is featured online at Across the Margin. I’d love to hear from you! Check it out here and drop your comments below. Happy reading!!! *****
A grizzled, gap-toothed man asks to break a twenty for his bill. I keep all m’fives, he tells the waitress. The man at the counter laughs. I like keeping all my money, too. Naw, the fives. He holds a bill aloft. The ones with E. When I was little and loud, my favorite word was, …
The boy saw the man snap the wishbone to destroy the universe, but because he was little no one heeded his cries. *****
Despair choked. Cultivated joy. Harvested peace. *****
Home from the hospital, my daughter says, Why, Mom? The big things, yes. Fire and flood. Hypocrisy and hate. But that’s not what she means today. Today, she means the mystery of unintelligible suffering. When she was little, I knew all, healed all. Her growing stole my magic. Her growing made me mortal. Now she …
