I’m thrilled to have 5 drabbles included in this Anthology. Check it out!
I’m thrilled to have 5 drabbles included in this Anthology. Check it out!
This story was published today by Thomas at the Academy of the Heart and Mind. I hope you enjoy it!
This is what author Steven Lester Carr thought about it:
Jim, if ever there was a writer who found his niche, you’ve found yours: the voice of love and compassion. You’re the Norman Rockwell of family-oriented stories that are always warm and insightful. Always a pleasure to read.
Adam Stump had this to say:
Wow! Wonderful story! I’ll be honest, when mom was sad, I thought that Auntie had died. It softened the blow of the real sadness a bit and gave when the real reason for the sadness is revealed, it helps to keep the “light” feel if a story focused on a very real and crushing reality. This stuff is A1 material. You have a way of presenting tough subjects in a warm and gentle way. I think if Fred Rogers has written adult fiction, this would be it: it’s ok to be sad, but there’s always hope that tomorrow will be better.
If you don’t want to use the link here it is:
Auntie Gertie spent more time that summer teaching me how to make pancakes than was probably necessary, but I was just a ten year old kid who’d rather have been playing baseball or video games than fooling around in the kitchen learning to cook. That didn’t matter to Auntie. She had a way about her.
“Let’s try to accomplish something useful this summer, shall we? I don’t think increasing your score at Space Invaders really counts.” She gave me a pointed look. It turned out she was right.
Earlier that year Dad had moved out so Mom began working an extra shift at the local grocery store. After school let out in early June Auntie put her foot down and said to Mom, “Kate, you bring those kids over here and let me take care of them.” She lived five miles west of us, the next town over from our little town of Long Lake. “They can’t be by left by themselves.”
Which was true. I was the oldest and certainly not the brightest bulb in the pack. I barely passed fifth grade. After me came seven year old Paul and five year old Shelly. It was definitely a good move on my mom’s part to listen to Auntie.
The first thing she did was teach me how to make pancakes. I learned other stuff too, like how to cut the grass, weed the garden and be a nicer big brother to my siblings. But making pancakes was the first thing I learned and it was a good feeling, making something we could actually eat and enjoy. It was fun to make them, too. I liked to watch the bubbles form on the top. Like I said, Auntie had a way about her. She even taught me how to wash the dishes when I was done.
Looking back, it was the best summer of my life. I felt like I grew up a little. In fact, I’m pretty sure how that morning went wouldn’t have happened quite like it did if it hadn’t been for Auntie and her influence on me.
It was just after sunrise the last week of August, a week before we had to go back to school. I came into the kitchen to find Mom at the table, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, a cup of coffee pushed to the side.
“Randy,” she said, looking up and wiping a tear from her eye. “What are you doing up?”
It was six-thirty in the morning, the time I normally got up. I knew right then something wrong and ignored her question. “Mom, are you okay?” I asked, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her. Mom never cried. Something big was going on. I wondered if it had something to do with Dad.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” she said, standing up, suddenly a whirlwind activity. “Let me get you some breakfast.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “Go get your brother and sister. We’ve got time before I take you to your aunt’s.
She went to the cupboard, opened it and stood staring. And staring. And starting some more.
I went to her side. “Mom?”
She turned, her eyes brimming with tears. They were the sadist eyes I’d ever seen, then or since. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you could fix breakfast today, Randy. I’m not feeling too well.”
Nowadays I’d say she was almost catatonic, but back then I didn’t know the word, let alone the meaning. She made her way to the table and sat down while I busied myself getting stuff ready.
When my brother and sister came in to the kitchen I told them, trying to sound way more cheerful than I felt, “Big treat today, gang. I’m fixing us all pancakes.” They barely cracked a smile. One look at Mom and even they knew something was up. But I fixed them pancakes instead of cold cheerios and Paul and Shelly, to their credit, didn’t make a stink. They ate them dutifully.
I even made some for Mom and she ate them, too. In fact, when she was finished she said, “Randy, those were the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten.”
“Auntie taught me,” I told her.
“Well, she did good.”
In spite of the sadness of the morning, I think the smile that appeared on my face was the biggest one I’d ever had.
Mom called work and told them she wouldn’t be in. Later that morning, Auntie came over and she and Mom sat and talked in the kitchen, drinking coffee and smoking their cigarettes. Mom told her that Dad had asked for a divorce. Not only had he left home, but he’d left home for good. That was the last summer we ever heard from him.
In later years, Mom always talked about how much she appreciated me making breakfast that day, saying, “You were such a great help, Randy. It really made things easier for me.”
She always has said they were the best pancakes she’d ever eaten even though it turned out I had forgotten to put the egg in. Auntie pointed that mistake out later that day when Mom had gone upstairs to rest. I’d made her some, too, when she’d come over.
“Randy, I can’t believe you fed your mother and your brother and sister this junk. I thought I taught you better than that.” Then she smiled and hugged me. “But, you live and learn. Right? There’s always next time.”
Right. There was always a next time, and I always got it right. But Mom never said a bad word about the pancakes I fixed for her that day even though my brother and sister sure did. I guess that’s what it means to really love your kid. You’ll forgive them just about anything.
Here’s a favorite story of mine. Special thanks to Onkar for featuring it today!!
Here’s a wonderful review of The Hermit by author Steven Lester Carr:
“Art should make us feel something. This is art! I’ll be feeling it for quite some time to come. Like reading a dream . . a revolving, endless dream. Remarkable!”
Here’s the story if you don’t want to use the link:
Even though he hadn’t left his house that day, nor had he for the more than three years since his beloved wife had passed away, here’s what Bob Carlson wrote later that night:
‘I lay under the covers and watched the clock in anticipation for the start of the coming day. When the digital numbers finally rolled over to five-thirty, I leapt to my feet and quickly made the bed. I hurried downstairs to the basement where I did the same routine of exercises I’d done forever: pushups, jumping jacks, sit-ups, with stretches in between. Tiger my three year old tabby cat joined me, purring away like crazy. When I was finished with my workout, I hurried upstairs to the kitchen and fed him, and then fixed myself my usual breakfast of oatmeal, brown sugar and a banana. I looked at the clock on the wall, it read six-fifteen. I still had plenty of time to catch the seven-twenty bus to downtown Minneapolis from here where I lived, the small town of Long Lake, twenty miles to the west.
While eating I checked the weather app on my phone. It forecast a high of eighty-seven degrees with a dew point around sixty-five degrees, so it’d be hot and humid. Hmm, I thought to myself, I’d better bring some bottled water.
I washed my dish, petted Tiger and got dressed. Today I chose my tan cargo shorts, a light green tee-shirt and my Clark’s walking shoes. On my head I’d wear my favorite dark blue Minnesota Twins cap. It’d be bright out so I also made a mental note to bring my sunglasses. By six-fifty I was ready. I put my water bottle, sunglasses, a book and an umbrella (just in case) in my daypack, petted Tiger some more (I love to hear his loud, purring motor) and went out the back door into the relative coolness of an mid August morning. I took a moment to enjoy my shady backyard with all of the hosta’s Liz and I had planted over the years, then walked along the gravel driveway to the front, where I stopped to enjoy the sunny front yard and my pretty sun-loving flower gardens (again, planted by Liz and me), making a mental note to weed and water tomorrow.
I love the bungalow house I’ve lived in for the last forty-five years. I’m seventy-nine and have been a widower for the last three plus years. Getting out like this was a good thing to do, I told myself.
I checked my wristwatch. It was nearly seven so I needed to get a move on. I hurried down the street, took a right and went down the hill to the bus stop. I was a few minutes early, so I watched the morning commuter traffic streaming by in the direction I was heading until Ed the bus driver wheeled up and opened the door.
“Hi, Bob,” he greeted me with a smile.
“Good morning, Ed, beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said cheerfully and went to find a seat. I ended up five rows back from the front on the left. At first I was the only rider, but by the time we got to downtown Minneapolis the bus was packed with mostly, if not all, commuters. The ride took about thirty minutes (we used the express lane), and I got off on the corner of Marquette and 10th, surrounded by the tallest skyscrapers in Minneapolis. I took a deep breath as I stepped off the bus and exhaled happily. I was enjoying being out and about and found myself in a really good mood. I even gave a five dollar bill to the first street person I saw.
The sun had risen above the tall buildings so I slipped on my sunglasses and walked down the Nicollet Mall to Washington Avenue, where I took a right and continued for a few blocks. Washington Avenue is probably one of the busiest and most congested of all the streets in downtown: loud, smelly and hectic. The noise almost made me almost turn around and head back for peace and quiet of my home. Almost. But I didn’t, and I’m glad.
Instead, I took a left on Portland Avenue and continued walking for a block until, suddenly, I stepped away from the noise and congestion of the busy city into a different world; a lush, verdant green, riverfront park that led to the Stone Arch Bridge, the iconic foot bridge that runs for a quarter of a mile over the Mississippi River above Lock and Dam Number One. I paused to take in the scene of the mighty Mississippi with its thundering rapids. Suddenly, I was inundated with memories of when Liz and I used to come down here, to this very spot, in fact, right up until just before she died of a brain hemorrhage three years, two months and seventeen days ago. God, I missed her so.
I shook off the beginnings of a creeping melancholy and crossed the bridge. The rapids were churning and boiling due to recent rains, and the air was filled with their deafening sound. It was breathtaking. On the far side there was a quiet back water where Liz and I once saw a beaver swimming, playfully diving and rolling around in the calm water, driving a frantically barking dog on the shore absolutely nuts. I took a look but, of course, the beaver wasn’t there. It made me a little sad, but that’s life, I reminded myself. It goes on.
I walked on and stepped off the bridge and into a large, grassy area; a shady park filled with mature oak and maple trees. There were plenty of people around, everyone in a good mood, people grinning and happy to be out on such a pretty, summery, sunny day, me included. When I smiled at folks they smiled back, and the connection with them was nice. I found a park bench beneath a huge maple tree and sat down to relax and have a drink of my water. So far it had been a wonderful morning.
It got better. After resting and people watching for about an hour, I walked down a tree lined sidewalk for a few blocks to the Astor Cafe, located in a restored turn of the century brick warehouse. I found a quiet table outside on the patio and ordered a cup of English Breakfast tea. I’ve got celiac sprue, that gluten intolerance thing, so I had a chocolate coconut macaroon to go with it. Now that’s how to treat yourself! I sipped my tea and savored my macaroon and watched people some more, the Mississippi River less than one-hundred feet away, and the breath-taking skyline of Minneapolis on the far shore less than a quarter of a mile beyond. It was like I was in another world, and I sat for over an hour, taking it all in, happy that I’d made the journey from my home all the way down to the Mississippi riverfront.
It dawned on me that I was having a delightful day. There was so much to see that I roused myself to get off my butt and get going to check more things out. I ventured further north on another shady sidewalk that followed along the shoreline of the Mississippi. In a few blocks, I crossed a narrow bridge onto Nicollet Island, a narrow sliver of land in the middle of the river only a few hundred feet from downtown Minneapolis. I strolled down old time streets lined with quaint Victorian Style homes dating back over a hundred years. I found another bench near the river and took a little rest, had more water and watched the world go by some more. I had a book with me, but who could read with so much going on: people out walking and enjoying the day, birds singing happily in the nearby lilac bushes, even a minstrel in a nearby park playing a guitar. It was all wonderful.
Around two-thirty I started to get hungry so I strolled back to the Astor Cafe and had a nice mixed green salad with strawberries, almonds and feta cheese, some tea and, you guessed it, another macaroon. I leisurely ate my lunch, chatted with the waiter for a while (whose name was Josh) until I decided it was time for me to head for home. I said good-bye to Josh and slowly made my way back to the Stone Arch Bridge. As I crossed, I took a moment and stopped, leaned against the railing, and pondered once again the beauty of the mighty Mississippi with rainbows now appearing out of nowhere in the mist rising above the turbulent river. The view was so pretty it almost brought a tear to my eye. I wished Liz could have been there to see it with me, but, of course, she couldn’t.
Breathing a heavy sigh, and conscious of not letting my spirits sink too low, I made myself leave and continued walking into downtown and over to Marquette Avenue where my bus stop was located. I caught the five-thirty five express to Long Lake, walked up the hill to my street and turned into the driveway of my little bungalow. I checked my watch. It was just about six-thirty.
Once inside, I breathed a contented sigh of relief. It felt good to be back to my little home, my sanctuary, as I often referred to it. I did some housework (vacuumed and dusted the living room), fed Tiger, and then relaxed with him in the backyard while watching the sun go down and sharing a bowl of salty caramel ice cream. (He loved it!)
As darkness fell, we went inside and I turned on the ten o’clock news and watched for a while, something Liz and I used to always do. When it was over I went to bed and read a few pages from the newest James Lee Burke novel, thinking to myself, what a perfectly glorious day I’d just had. Tiger came in, jumped up on the bed, turned around a few times getting comfortable, before plopping down and curling up in the bend in my knees. Around eleven o’clock I turned off the light and went to sleep.”
Okay. That’s pretty good, Bob thinks to himself after he’s finished reading what he had written. He sits back and sighs. Anything else to add? He ponders for a moment. Nope, nothing comes to mind.
He had awoken at twelve-thirty, gotten up and gone into the kitchen for a drink of water. He had turned on the light to check on Tiger’s dish, wondering if he’d forgotten to feed him. He couldn’t remember, so to be on the safe side he gave him some more food. The big cat’s loud purring motor showed Bob how much he appreciated it.
He usually did his writing late, like now, so he had gone downstairs to the basement to work on his book. He’d read once that you should write about what you know, so he’s working on a book about a guy who’s a hermit. He lives by himself with his cat and the story is about how he’s trying to adjust to life as a widower. Bob can definitely relate.
Once downstairs, he’d turned on his computer and brought up his “Hermit” file, opened it and started typing. The day at the Stone Arch Bridge is what had come into his mind so that’s what he wrote about. He’s happy with how his book is progressing. He tries to do a page or two a night. He’s written nearly one thousand and two hundred of them so far, almost one page for ever day his wife Liz has been gone.
It’s about two-thirty when he scans what he’d written one more time. Satisfied, he shuts off the computer. He’s suddenly tired. Tomorrow’s another day. He’s got groceries to get, and he’ll be up soon enough, anyway, at his usual five-thirty, only a few short hours away.
He makes his way upstairs to the kitchen. He’s happy with his story about the hermit and how even though he lives alone with his cat, he’s doing such a remarkable job adjusting to life as a widower; making the most of things, getting out and about, trying to live a meaningful existence. He sighs a huge, heavy sigh, and says out loud, “If only it were only that easy.”
He turns off the kitchen light and goes back to bed. It’s nearly three in the morning and he finds himself thinking about the day ahead. His grief is such that he continues to find it impossible to leave the house. It’s been like for the last three years, two months and seventeen… no, make that eighteen days, now. He decides that later today he’s going to water his outdoor plants, weed his garden and do some laundry. He’ll get through the day, just like he has ever since Liz died. My god, he misses her so much.
But he’s got Tiger. They get by. Life goes on, and he’s trying to make the best of it even though the only time he leaves his yard is in his imagination. In fact, he lives in a kind of limbo dream world between present day reality and past memories. Thank god for his memories, he often thinks to himself, like today, when he spent the entire day in his easy chair by the front window, reminiscing about the trips he and Liz used to take to downtown Minneapolis, and how they used to go walking by the Mississippi River and on the Stone Arch Bridge. Oh, but those were wonderful times.
He sighs once more, pulls the covers close and turns out the light. He’s about to fall asleep when he remembers about getting groceries. He and Liz used to go to Cub Foods for them but no more. They don’t deliver, but thankfully there’s a grocery store in the area that does. He’ll have to call them first thing in the morning. What will he write about tomorrow? Well, he’ll think of something. He always does. After all, he’s got a lifetime of memories upon which to draw.
He closes his eyes and in a moment falls asleep, the next long day looming only a few short hours away.
Here’s special shout out to editor Dagmara K. for featuring my story today. THANK YOU SO MUCH!!
I’ve also posted it below:
After we waved good-bye to the last of the guests, Janet turned to me and asked, “Where’s Evan?”
“I think he’s downstairs. I got the feeling he wanted to be alone for a while. First the funeral and now the reception, I think it all got a little overwhelming.”
“Why don’t you go check on him? I’ll fix us some supper.”
We were feeling the weight of the loss of our only child, Jenny, who was also our ten year grandson’s mother. We’d be taking care of him for the foreseeable future while his father recovered in the hospital from the deadly car accident that had changed our lives forever. This wasn’t going to be easy for any of us.
We gave each other a hug followed by a quick kiss. “Okay. I’ll go see how he’s doing,” I told her and went downstairs.
Evan was at my work bench looking at a jar of agates. He turned to me, “These are really neat Grandpa.”
I walked up next to him and said, “They really are, aren’t they? I polished them in my rock tumbler a long time ago, way before you were born.”
I watched as he continued to study them. He seemed interested so it gave me an idea. “Come with me, I want to show you something.” We went to my office and I reached up to a shelf above my desk. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Evan followed my every move. “Here, have a look at this,” I said, handing him a clear glass jar.
“He peered closely at its contents. What is that, Grandpa?”
“Check it out. Open it.”
He did and reached in to pull out a walnut sized stone and began to admire it in the palm of his hand. His eyes grew wide open, “Wow. This is really cool. What is it?”
“It’s a Lake Superior agate.”
He studied it carefully. “It’s really pretty.”
I smiled, “Yeah it is. It’s a favorite of mine.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I found this when I was about your age on a gravel road in northern Minnesota. It was my first agate. Feel how smooth it is.”
He rubbed the stone between his hands like he was warming it up. Then he held it close and gazed with wonder at the rusty red hues enfolding swirls of white crystals. I didn’t blame him. It was a beautiful specimen.
I said, “To me, it’s like holding a piece of magic. It was formed from volcanic fires and lava flows millions of years ago where Lake Superior is now located.”
“But that’s way up north. How’d it get to where you found it on that gravel road?”
I smiled, seeing he was momentarily distracted from his mother’s death. “Can you imagine that it somehow made its journey to that road by the long, slow movement of the glaciers? I prefer to think of it as part glaciation, part mystery.” He continued studying the agate as I continued, “It’s hard to find them these days. They’re very unique, and their value is in their rarity.” I loved talking about rocks, much to the consternation of my wife. It was nice to have a captive audience.
He laughed, “You’re talking weird, Grandpa. Like poetry or something.”
“Well, to me there’s something special about them,” I chuckled along with him. “Call it poetry or magic or whatever, but I’m glad that you like it as much as I do.” I paused for a moment, enjoying how happy the stone was making him feel. Then I made a quick decision, “I’ll tell you what, you can keep it. It’s yours.”
He visibly gasped and his eyes lit up, “No way! Really?”
“Yep. It’s a cool agate. Enjoy it.”
“Oh, Grandpa, thank you so much. It’s beautiful. I love it.”
He was happy for the first time since the tragic car accident that had killed his mother. Then he threw his arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. I hugged him right back. Tight.
After a minute I led him back to the work bench and we sat down on a couple of stools. I told him a little bit more about agates and their history as he gently caressed the singular stone he held in his small hands, his thoughts for a moment taken away from this sad day.
When I was finished he was quiet. I was, too. What would each of our lives be like now, now that someone we both loved so dearly was no longer with us? My Jenny. Evan’s mother.
After a minute he looked at me hopefully and asked, “Grandpa? Do you think we could maybe go searching for more agates sometime? It would be so fun. I’d really like to do that.”
His innocence and quiet voice almost broke my heart. We were both suffering and grieving our loss. Evan picked up the jar of polished agates he’d first been looking at and held it up, reverently turning it back and forth to catch the light and show the colors of the stones inside, gazing at them entranced, as if in another world.
It would be so easy to say, ‘Sure, let’s do that. Let’s go hunting agates.’ And I almost did, but then I was held back by a sudden, horrible thought. What if I said ‘Yes’ and we went up north and didn’t find any? Agates were hard to find nowadays. The disappointment might crush him.
“Maybe we should wait awhile,” I suggested.
“Aw…” He set the jar down and turned away, but not before I could see tears forming in his sad eyes. “Okay,” he sighed.
I mentally pinched myself. What a jerk I was being for refusing to take my grandson on a trip we could both use just because I was afraid of a little disappointment. We’d just buried a person we both loved dearly for Pete’s sake. Not find any agates? I’m sure I could deal with that. Same with Evan. I had to give us both a little credit.
“Wait a minute,” I told him, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I take that back.” He turned to me and his eyes became wide with anticipation. “Sure,” I said, “let’s do it. Let’s go find ourselves some agates.”
“Are you sure, Grandpa? Really?” The way his face lit up and the happiness that shone in his eyes made me realize I’d made the right decision.
“Absolutely,” I said, instantly planning a driving trip north and picturing him cradling a handful of newly found agates in his cupped palms. “Let’s go tomorrow.”
“Yea!” he shouted and started dancing around the room.
Just then Janet called from upstairs. “You two all right down there?”
I looked at Evan and he looked back at me. We were both grinning, “Yeah,” I said. “We’re just fine.”
“Okay, then. Supper’s ready. Come on.”
“Goody, I famished,” Evan said. He ran ahead and hurried up the steps, clutching the agate I’d given him and yelling, “Grandma, look what Grandpa gave me.”
I smiled at my departing grandson. “I’ll be up in a minute,” I called after him, but I doubt he heard me.
I went to the work bench to turn off the light and saw the jar of agates with the top open. What the heck, I thought to myself. I grabbed a few before putting the lid back on. It wouldn’t hurt to have some on hand to scatter on the ground up north for us to find. Just in case. Evan didn’t need any more disappoints in his young life. Not now. At least not if I could help it.
I’ve got 2 entries in the new issue of the World of Myth Magazine, one drabble and SF Story. Check them out at: http://theworldofmyth.com/
Once you are at the site click on “Stories” and it will take you to where they are. Enjoy!
In addition to an ebook, Forgotten Ones has just been released in hard copy. It’s a drabble anthology edited by Michelle River and published by the wonderful Eerie River Publishing. It’s filled with over 250 pages of drabbles centered around a theme of myths and legends. I’m thrilled to have two drabbles in it!
Hey everyone! Time to check out broadcast #37 of Talking Stories radio. My friend Ger White reads two poems. They’re fantastic! Note: They start around 43:45 min.
I’m not sure if anyone is interested, nor, frankly why I want to post this, but what the heck, why not?
My brother Tom and I used to play music together and during the summer of 2011 we got a gig at Lake Harriet Band Shell. It was 95 degrees out and the humidity was 100% it seemed like. We were playing with our friend Kate, a wonderful singer, and another friend on fiddle, Carolyn. There’s lots of background noise but it brings back some great memories. I hope you enjoy it! 🙂
Many thanks to Gill James for featuring my story. I’m thrilled to be able to share it with you.
Here’s the story if you don’t want to use the link:
He remembered it from biology class. Surface tension. It meant, The tendency of water molecules to shrink into the smallest area possible. He remembered something else, too, about a water bug being able to walk across the surface, which at the time he’d thought was pretty amazing.
He’d never been the best student and probably failed the science test back then, just like he’d done years later with their marriage; failed. He’d shrunk, become smaller as a human being while she’d grown and blossomed like the flowers he grew in his carefully tended garden. He’d stayed safe and secure in his IT job. She had grown like the bright blooming lilies in that same garden, excelling as a fast tracked manager in an prestigious marketing firm, making new friends, traveling both home and abroad and even joining a running club and completing a triathlon. She’d grown and he hadn’t. He’d taken the safe way, kept his head down and played it safe. She’d moved on like that water bug, moving ever foreword, fearlessly into the unknown.
Sure they’d tried, especially during those early years. They’d made time for date night once a week and together planned three getaway vacations each year. But now, nine years in, their interests had changed and they’d drifted apart and their marriage had died. He hadn’t been enough for her. She had given up and now she was telling him she was leaving, moving on.
“I’ve had it, Bill,” she said coming down from upstairs. “I just need something different.”
He had nothing to say, knew her leaving was inevitable yet now was emotionally unprepared and stunned speechless by the finality of it all.
“But…But…” he finally mustered
“No buts, Bill. It’s over.”
He watched her eyes slip off his to some unknown, but for her, eagerly anticipated future. A future that didn’t include him. There was a twinkle there. And something else he hadn’t seen for years. A spark. She was on fire with her passionate desire to leave.
She picked up a single suitcase and her laptop satchel, kissed him on the forehead and turned and walked out the front door.
He watched as the door closed, leaving him alone. She was gone, gone for good. The finality finally settling in, a heavy weight in his chest. Man, how he still loved her. Man, how he wished he could change. Man, how he knew that he couldn’t.
He went to sink and ran some water, filling the teapot. Some tea would be nice, some nice soothing chamomile perhaps. He sat waiting for the water to boil, looking out the window toward his garden but not seeing it. Time slowing to a crawl.
The water started boiling, the teapot whistling but he didn’t hear a thing. He stood and started into space, remembering the rest of the definition for surface tension. How it allowed for objects to float on the water’s surface. Suspended and drift less. Just like he felt now.
Special thanks to the staff at The Drabble for featuring my poem today!
I’ve posted it below, too:
In Her Dreams
She rides a painted pony
Over rolling grassland hills.
She walks a shaded woodland path,
And listens to the wind whispering.
Sometimes she stops to breathe the scent
Of a fragrant upland meadow,
Or drinks to quench her thirst
From a rushing mountain stream.
She uses the images in her young mind
To take her far away
From the filthy city her parents have taken her
While fleeing the ravages of war.
She travels from there often,
In the quiet of her mind,
And gives her youthful spirit a chance
To grow into something beautiful,
Just like in her dreams.
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