Dark Paths

I followed the cries deeper into the woods. “Keep talking, little girl. I’m coming,” I soothed. Her yelps bounded into the ABC song. At L, the smell of lemon cake. At S, my lantern addressed a scarlet coat. At Z, we held hands and picked zinnias for Grandmother.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro from Pexels

Dog Days

On August afternoons, windows gape and fans yawn. The cats venture across the deserts of drab carpeting searching for a breeze, but my mother—outside with garden shears—hears music in the heat. Humming and the percussion of snapping lilac branches refresh her more than any succulent storm.

The Flight Between Worlds

Two low-flying owls hurtled toward us, so white they glittered in the fog. We heard the susurrus of their wings before talons shattered our windshield. Stunned, all we could do was let them shuttle us— faster than lightning— into our next lives.

The Real Drama Happens Backstage

Last night, that asshole playing Don Lockwood screamed at me: “Your stupid rain machine’s drowning out my song!”

So tonight, as he sang in the rain, I cranked the water pump to full blast and walked out. Let him turn it off.

 

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