Even more Fiction in 58
First sister has put a moratorium on my blogging from Iowa. Restrictions.
"You can't blog about me."
Party-pooper.
I am in Iowa, where it threatens to snow. Low, gray clouds hang across the prairie and the wind's water content chills exposed flesh.
OK, I won't blog about the fams. Even thought it is Thanksgiving and where else can a writer mine so much rich human condition than surrounded by one's own DNA?
(I think I'm the most well-adjusted of the bunch, just so you know. We're all doomed.)
Here's a little Fiction in 58. I wrote it in a coffee shop, waiting for my niece's car to get an oil change (gotta earn my keep).
At Heart's Hope
The wind never stops.
It is, after all, a cemetery. Low headstones, wind-swept lawn, plastic flowers.
A place for the lost.
The grieving. The mourned out.
It’s an odd place to discover love.
But it happens. More than you know.
“I’m taking her to the Knights of Columbus breakfast,” he says with a wink. “After mass, of course.”
"You can't blog about me."
Party-pooper.
I am in Iowa, where it threatens to snow. Low, gray clouds hang across the prairie and the wind's water content chills exposed flesh.
OK, I won't blog about the fams. Even thought it is Thanksgiving and where else can a writer mine so much rich human condition than surrounded by one's own DNA?
(I think I'm the most well-adjusted of the bunch, just so you know. We're all doomed.)
Here's a little Fiction in 58. I wrote it in a coffee shop, waiting for my niece's car to get an oil change (gotta earn my keep).
At Heart's Hope
The wind never stops.
It is, after all, a cemetery. Low headstones, wind-swept lawn, plastic flowers.
A place for the lost.
The grieving. The mourned out.
It’s an odd place to discover love.
But it happens. More than you know.
“I’m taking her to the Knights of Columbus breakfast,” he says with a wink. “After mass, of course.”
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