The Briefcase
There was nothing else in the briefcase. I set the gun down on the floor and checked more thoroughly. I ripped the lining out, ruining the briefcase in the process. Why? I wondered. Why had they left me a gun but no instructions? What was I supposed to do with it? I picked the gun up again and checked. It was loaded. I wrapped it in the torn lining and put it back in the briefcase. Before I left the hotel room, I searched the closets and drawers, even the bathroom. Nothing, unless you counted the Gideon Bible in the bedside table. Damn. This wasn’t meant to be a guessing game, was it?...
Read MoreSaudade*
Early spring. The place we called the cottage is still there. Familiar and strange as eye blinks in a desert. Rose of Sharons cut down, confederate with uprooted lilac and pear tree. The building’s paint is freshened – trendy provincial blue with lemon pie trim. No faded white siding or forest green sills for the latest occupants. Won’t do. Bright tile-red shingles christen the roof. Young hands and feet banned from climbing its slick surface. The maple is steadfast where two sandy roads carve out the property line. The catalpa tree will soon spread spade-shaped leaves....
Read MoreThe Pink Hat
I know all those faces wild flashing eyes angry chanting voices centuries of walking the great global umbilical road of this long long march yesterday today tomorrow can anyone answer why we have to ask for our rights? why they are not a given? who it is that refuses us? and it’s not over yet we are still marching on those harsh ancient stony roads but we take each of you with us woven into each stitch of this pink hat knit one purl one knit one purl...
Read Moreabide
In the moments between when we cannot feel the warmth of your hand in mine, the brush of skin on skin and we are open to the world alone unsafe exposed I know that somewhere you are thinking of me knowing that I am treasuring the memory of you, and we abide in our love as in a warm home in winter. by Sandra Leigh. ******************** The Years Have Stolen Everything. There was a time, wasn’t there? when your halting tender breath searching found and touched my diffident skin caught and held me silent held me silent astonished trembling with desire like sudden pain. Do...
Read MoreWhere The Wild Pines Grow
Written in 20 minutes by Márta O’Reilly during a writing exercise we had in our writing group. The title topic was “The Place Where Wild Pines Grow”. I feel as if I’d been here before. I recognize the lay of the land, the shape of that hill on the horizon. I know as I walk this path what I will see when I turn that corner. This is not an ordinary déjà vu; this familiarity with every tree, every outcropping of rock down to every blade of grass. Yet my plane landed here only yesterday. I am an old man. I have travelled far and long on the many trails of my world. But my history...
Read MoreThe Thursday Writers
Written in twenty minutes by Chris Beryl from this writing prompt: “He Turned the Key in the Lock and Opened the Door” He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw a huge dog and three puppies. “What…where did these come from ? We’re not keeping them you know. Oh no…” “Daddy daddy, we found them in a field. Someone forgot them. They left them in a box. They were crying Daddy.” ” Left them in field my …. Dumped them more likely” he said under his breath. He looked at his children. They were delirious with joy. Jack and Patricia sat on the...
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