There are a few weeks, when he is not sure the geese will come back. If it’s been warm enough for the tress to bud, but he still hadn’t heard their honking, he gets worried. They flew south earlier in the year, when he was a boy, he remembers. Now they don’t leave until late November. Just a few days before the first good snowfall.
Like they knew.
It was June before he saw the first flock. A few weeks after the thaw and the river down the way flooded.
His wife used to call them the most elegant things.
“I mean, I know it’s none of my business.”
“Since you asked. I think you were a little too hard on him. He meant well.”
“He meant well?”
“It’s not that big of a deal. You might have overreacted.”
“Am I not speaking loud enough?”
“I can hear you just fine. I just can’t believe you’re defending him..”
“Well, you’re young. Rash. When you get to my age, you’ll realize it’s not worth getting so worked up over the little things.”
“What he did is hardly a little thing.”
“Like I said. It’s none of my business.”
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.
The coffee at Pearl’s was terrible and the service wasn’t much better. But it was the only place open this late. Or this early, depending on your schedule.
Lamb and Doe slid into the only clean booth and opened the grease-stained menus, while the waitress stood there, looking ready to keel over.
“Bacon and eggs for me,” one of them said.
They stayed quiet until the food arrived, and even then, they didn’t have much to say. Which they both thought was fine. After breakfast they caught the train out of the city, fell asleep on each other’s shoulder.
Prompt courtesy of Bikurgurl‘s Wednesday challenge.
The weather channel issued a humidity warning. Old people and kids should stay away from the heat. The library was air-conditioned and full of both.
Bear encountered an old man laying on a cot, hawaiian shirt almost completely unbuttoned and sipping on a car of beer in the M-N fiction section.
“Don’t mind me,” he said.
“It’s just that I think the book I’m looking for is behind you,” Bear said.
The old man wrestled himself up to his elbows, lifted his sunglasses and looked Bear over.
“I suppose I could stretch my legs a little. C’mere. Help me up.”
They say, they all say, all you need to write poetry is pain and a distaste for proper punctuation, but that is a joke. Isn’t good enough. Four words, line break, five words line break. Counting syllables and trying, thesaurusly, for alliteration, or the opposite of that. Of words that squeal, slam and crash like a car accident. Broken glass, awkward, pauses on the precipice.
Of something or other. Great truth, or greater even, or more than likely not. Harmony and discord, images and sounds staying married, but only until the kids are old enough to move out. And rhyme.
When things got really bad, got to where he couldn’t take it, he’d take off in the woods behind the house. Walking any which way, looping back, circling around trees, until he became disoriented. And then, if he found a suitable spot, he’d gather the fallen pine needles into one large pile. He’d cut branches from fallen trees, drag logs, and then lay down, pulling the boughs over him.
And he’d stay that way, hidden, immobile, looking no more out-of-place than any other twiggy forest mound. And he’d try release the pressure built up inside of him, before he burst.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.
Dzinski didn’t remember his run in with the kids the night before until he’d finished his second cup of coffee. And then, he couldn’t remember if he’d actually shot them.
There was a moment when he thought he didn’t care if he had.
Then he panicked and ran to the bedroom to find his piece. It wasn’t in the holster hanging on the bed post, and it wasn’t in his jacket. Not on the night stand or under his pillow or in the cupboard with the glasses. Dzinski finally found it in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet.
It had been fired.