writer • editor • dog lover
“Internet friends are real friends!”
We’ve all heard the claims and counter claims. Most people have picked a side. Which is inherently weird since nobody has bothered to define what friendship is, or what constitutes real friendship.
Continue reading “Internet Friends”
He flicked the butt, still glowing, out of the car’s open window. A jogger or dog walker would stamp it out in due course.
He filled his lungs, checking his bank account with a smile. He expected more ceremony, more import to his last ciggie.
He shrugged.
Image credit: El Caminante/Pixabay
This post was written for the YeahWrite #447 Microprose grid.
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Breathy whistles of calliope music swallowed his words.
“Come,” a silken voice commanded from the darkness. Swirling, slithering white-gloved hands led him forward. An impuissant marionette, he followed.
Behind him, a closing door’s click ushered a silence so complete his ears ached.
Released, he clawed at slippery surfaces searching for an exit, mocked by grotesque reflections of himself.
CW: mention (no detail) of dog death in children’s literature
When Child 2 was five he started a reading program at school. He was an early reader, like his brother, and the teacher was gently extending his skills. Every day, he had to pick a book from a specially marked box, bring it home, and get one of his parents to read with him. The idea was that he’d read, we’d listen, and if he stumbled, we’d help him sound out words and figure out meanings from context.
Continue reading “My friend, Bear”
Acacias, adorned in gold, bob heavy heads to a koolbardi’s caroling call. A raven, scratching at freshly turned soil, unearths Marco’s watch. The koolbardi swoops, screeching. A clash of beaks. A storm of feathers.
Silence.
Gingerly, Gina grabs her shovel.
Around mid-July become deeply maudlin and morose. Be confused about why colours seem muted, sounds seem dulled, about why you’re suddenly short-tempered and tetchy with your family. Wonder if you have a hormone imbalance. Check for pain or injury. When you find nothing glaringly wrong, wonder if mood swings characterise anxiety or depression.
Continue reading “How not to make my father’s sardine achar”
I watch my four-year-old son spring from rock to boulder — a little mountain goat — giggling with pleasure.
“Don’t fall!” I call, my motherliness rising like bile in my throat.
He doesn’t hear, and keeps climbing — surefooted, confident.
I hope he never hears my anxiety.
They exchange secrets; two strangers on the bus.
In response to Nate’s critique of his own imagery in Break Up
Continue reading “Love is a string of cheese”
