Many of you have encouraged me to put together some of my personal flash stories (some of them posted here in Roughwighting) into a book of short (short) stories. Continue reading
“Oh, yes, the evening sounds delightful,” she answers in her proper English, with a slight quiver to her voice. Violet’s small, hazel eyes beam, the thin white hair on her head moving as if in a breeze as she nods her head.
“Dinner might be enough. You’ve just only been feeling better,” I suggest. Violet and I became friends while she attended my writing classes. We’re a strange combination: she is an 80-year-old widow from New Zealand and works in a New Age city bookstore; I’m married, decades younger, and work in the suburbs.
“I read the book, Violet. It’s a sweet romance, but it’s sad too. I’m not sure the movie…” Continue reading
Today, four days past the middle of March, I waken to the dreaded four-letter word.
S N O W.
But I decide to shovel away my disgruntlement of another wintry day and to exercise outside No Matter What. Normally I dislike the cold and the fear of falling on icy roadways, but after three months of this weather, and after meditating my breaths into ACCEPTANCE, I choose to go with the flow. Or in this case, Go with the Snow. Continue reading
The old photos make me conscious of my age. I peer at the photo of my son at three years old, laughing in pure abandon as he pulled on a cowboy hat. Where’d he ever get that hat? How’d I take that candid picture without a cell phone? Where’d my old camera go?
And next to the “cowboy” photo is one of me, reading to my daughter, six years old at the time. Did I really look that young? Back then, I thought I was old, almost 35! Continue reading
I see the older woman walk slowly up our driveway, step by leaden step, watching out for icy patches. Her head is down, so I can only see the top of her forest-green hood, attached to the overcoat she wears. It’s big on her, and I wonder if it belonged to a son now living in another town, probably another state. Continue reading