It was a house whose architect was time. It was old then, even then, when the boy was but three years old. In a time far past, it had been a single room of log and dab. But when the boy first knew it, it had grown into five rooms under heavy cottonwood and willow … Continue reading Architects in Time
to lie in summer grass uncut by suburbia or the commerce of hay to lie in this aura, this odor of soil and cured grass, to lie under the flagging blooms of Timothy, Brome or Western Bunch bannering against a blue so vast that whole lives cannot know it, to lie in this overture of … Continue reading To Lie in Summer
Back in the day Doreen was quite busty and an on-her-back young lusty; but the bust drooped, and the back stooped, and now Doreen is an upright old fusty. Darrel was a boasty young lust sparking Doreen for her bust; but the lust went gloppy and Doreen went floppy. Now Darrel’s an crusty old fust.
Old Daryl was a morbid sort. By the time he was sixty-five, he had his will all sorted, his bills finally all paid off, his porch rocker put where he could watch the sunset until he took part in it. When his buddies, the guys he’d grown up with, gone off to fight Hirohito with, … Continue reading A Prince
Whether that shovel leans against the shed or turns soil is irrelevant.
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.
May knew that it was unlikely that she was seeing Mickey. He’d been dead these twenty years. But she was pushing her walker over the threshold between the bedroom and the living room, feeling the deep ache in her hands and knees, and there Mickey was standing on the porch peering in through the shadows … Continue reading The Invitation
“Hey, Ferry Boy,” Olly Collings said. He was fishing off the landing pier, and he muttered it with a sneer as Ricky passed him to gather the guests for the trip across the lake. “Ferry Boy’s gonna ferry a fairy today.” “Go to hell,” Ricky said. “Not me,” Nate said, “I ain’t ferryin’ fairies.” Ricky … Continue reading Ferrying Mr. Billingsw
A wintering of her mind churns the gone familiars of ninety-two years? Posted in response to the Ragtag Community Daily Prompt cyclone.