I’m rising to the twelfth floor on a slow dangle when it stops on three and what can I do? I sigh and snap watchward glances, but in elevators and buses you go where and whenever you’re taken, so I dangle and wait. And the elevator door-wings slide wide on an angel, a young creature … Continue reading A Short Story of Lofty Longing
Under a pale sun— a thicket’s last leaf and, wind-ragged, a yellow finch Posted in response to the Ragtag daily prompt: Solitude.
Whether that shovel leans against the shed or turns soil is irrelevant.
Those three weeks in August, Bill and Edna changed the sheets in the two extra bedrooms seven times. Seven times they stripped all the bedding off at least one of the three beds, hauled the sheets to the laundry room, washed and dried (but did not fold) them and hauled them back to the bedrooms. … Continue reading When You Move to Montana, Don’t Tell a Soul
The taxi sat in the street below the window. Jacob knew the meter was running, but he still could not pick up his bags and open the door, then close it behind him and stagger his suitcase and trunk down the four flights to the exit and the taxi. He wanted Irene, his mother, to … Continue reading One of the Ways to Say So-Long
“Eddy Tomplinson does have a certain flair,” Donnel Frisbuy said, “most of it odoriferous.” He looked into his mug of Montana Blue Ale and then took a chug of it. The topic of conversation was the upcoming election, and whom the Last Lost County Country might send to the State Legislature. Donnel was a burned-in-hell … Continue reading Politics or The Doom of Last Lost County
In my willows, magpies— will they yatter this conceit all summer long?
Perry was showered and ready for a Montana Cowboy Saturday Night of wild women, sweet liquor and the usual paraphernalia of a Montana Cowboy Saturday night. Unfortunately, Perry’s idea of what a Cowboy Saturday Night should consist of and his execution of that idea never seemed to coincide. Much to Perry’s frustration, one beer was … Continue reading When the Ginger Beer is All Drunk Up.
with scent of lilacs blooming in the yard, lingering winter kill fetor
In the greening pasture beige stalks of last year’s yellow sweet clover Posted in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt verdant.