We need to be sensible, we’re told,
yet if we forgo the sensitive, our poems won’t unfold. Continue reading
The Steamy Trunk
Even Janine is surprised when the trunk’s contents move with a big thump, but then she supposes that too many of them were placed rather haphazardly. After all, she practically threw them in, racing to her first destination. (see What’s in the Trunk).
The smoke has dissipated. The policeman looks as baffled as a man working on a 1,000 piece puzzle. A puzzle in the shape of books – dozens of books – piled together as if they’ve been kidnapped, or as if they have some nefarious reason for hiding in the trunk of Janine’s car. Continue reading
What’s in the Trunk?
When the cop stops her, Janine does her best to appear calm. Unworried.
She presses the button slowly so her driver’s side window slides open as if Janine has all the time in the world.
The policeman is big, burly, and surly.
“Crap,” Janine mutters.
“Driver’s license.”
Janine wills her hands to not shake as she pulls her wallet out of her purse and finds the fake ID. Continue reading
His Path
Written in response to D.W. Peach’s March Speculative Fiction Prompt
The rain falls so hard the trees appear to be weeping. I stand on the steep sidewalk waiting for the school bus, hair frizzing into tight curls but mouth curled up in a sweet grandmotherly smile.
My grandson turns seven today, and I’m determined to help him celebrate. Continue reading
The Dawn in March
I was born in the March dawn, the sun shining lightly through snowflakes, welcoming the new spirit of an old soul.
I wailed to return from whence I came.
But the others encouraged me to stay. You chose this, they whispered. Continue reading
