Old man foot prints in frost on the worn road to Mother’s how many times?
Ira pulled the door to Jean’s apartment closed. He had spent the last three nights trying to sleep on her couch. Davy, her brother, was in her spare room. Ira was an old man, and had expected to die before any of his children. What little hope he had of that was gone. Jean was … Continue reading The Promises of Another Day
Doug was in line to the cosmetic counter behind four other customers. There were just two women running the counter, and they looked 5-o’clock frazzled. The canned music recycled “Blue Christmas,” “Jingle Bells,” “Rudolf, the Red Nosed Reindeer,” “Joy to the World,” and the rest of the seasonal irony of joy and good will. Doug … Continue reading Waiting on Queue at the Perfume Counter
This post is for those who follow writelee.com. In the USA, today is the day when people finally come to their senses and give express gratitude for all the wonder the Universe has given them. So WriteLee joins the chorus. He is grateful for many things, chief among these things are three wonderful children, a … Continue reading Thanks
Judge Ira Pottsdinger was not happy, he was a man of Justice. Mercy was an afterthought. A day without a conviction was a day when hell froze over for Judge Ira Pottsdinger. “What the hell (he was going to say ‘fuck’ but Defense was a woman, and so he was in mixed company) do you … Continue reading Ike Pleads the Fifth
She slowly slips out of dark's star-jeweled robe to don, and then undress, the orange rind bikini— a blush as shameless as Venus dimming— and arrays—again, as slow as longing— the vast blue skirt of the sun. What is the pun in this riddle?
“Zip it,” Midge always said. “Zip it kid, or you’re gonna die.” And she would mug what she meant by zipping her thumb and forefinger across her grim lips. "Zip." So this is exactly what Ike did. He zipped it. He was eight years old at the time and figured that zipping it was his … Continue reading Midge and Ike on the Lam
In the slow, urgent cadence of cattle, the black cows move again across a landscape of yellow grass and snow to where they last heard the familiar bawl, dumb to all but ache— whether of teat or heart we men cannot know, though we watch and have had familiar loves that for a summer of … Continue reading Weaning
In the spring OC arrived to see how “the fool’d wintered.” He found an empty cabin with the diary open on the rough log bench to a page dated February 12. The entry was, “The onliest hunt that matters is a man hunt. Going hunting.”
His flute was capable of other wonderful sounds, even whole orchestras of lovely sound. But whatever the sheet music told him and wand-waver orchestrated, Ole Clive always managed to make sure C6-very-sharp was one of the sounds his flute managed to tweet.