Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Jane unwrapped the boxes.  Between linens and scarves, she happened upon small treasures.  "Portable Art," she called them.  A mirror from Spain.  The spray-painted stencil of a sandpiper came from her sister. They tell stories, she thought.

Jane placed a small Buddha statue, a memoir from Thailand, in a small alcove near her front door.  As she crossed the room, she stubbed her toe on the spine of a book.  "So many books," she thought.  Littered across the floors of her new apartment were tomes on education, journals of her past, picture books and novels.  Jane's fondness for books was something she had inherited from her mom.

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Wednesday, April 20, 2011

George's Tavern

Standing outside O'Shannessy's, George holds a cigarette close to his mouth.  At the sight of Sarah coming down the street, his smoke-stained moustache twitches into a grin.  "Mornin' Sarah! What brings you into town?  Run out of jars, again?"

Sarah balances her shopping basket on her hip. "Nope.  I finished the strawberries this weekend, and the raspberries wont be ready for another week or two.  Nahhh, I just came in to see what's fresh at the market.  Where's Henry?  You two are like peas in a pod. I hardly ever see one of you without the other."

"Yeah, well, the wife's got him on a short leash these days.  Apparently he misplaced last week's paycheck, and Millie's got him working at home." George chuckles, and with a twist stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.  Unaccustomed to being empty, his hands comb back a strand of greasy, grey hair.

"Say, George, you want me pick up anything for ya at the market?"

"Nahh."  George reaches into the pocket of his tattered sport coat and pulls out his pack of cigarettes.  "You go on ahead and enjoy yourself.  It's a beautiful day."  He bends forward as he cups his hands and strikes a match.  With a drag and a puff, he leans back against the tavern wall.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

For the Love of Shadows

I look directly at it, and it's a straight line. But, the shadow tells a different story. Stretched by the angle of the light, it is an oval.

I am an oval.  You look at me, and I am a straight line.  But, my shadow speaks of circles.  I am turned inside out, dusting off a forgotten me.