It is morning and I am sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper having finished a bowl of cereal. My wife comes down after arising, showering and various other things. I take a good look at her and exclaim “You look like a million bucks”. She is appreciative

Time passes as I do things around the estate. We have lunch together. She has been to the grocery store and stood in line at Target after fighting an obvious welfare lady for the last bottle of Windex. I think she lost. I look at her and exclaim “You look like three quarters of a million bucks.” she smiles.

She did a chore or two and then napped. She came down about 3. I looked at her, hesitated and exclaimed “Girl; you look like a half a million bucks”. She looked at me not saying anything as she wasn’t quite awake.

She made us dinner after she had been to the gym for a workout designed for 30 year olds. She is more than twice that. I sat down at the table with her and proclaimed “You look like a quarter of a million bucks”. She smiled but added an icy glare.

About 8:30 after she had fallen asleep twice in her lazy girl while watching a rerun of the real housewives of Bagdad, she awoke and looked my way. I looked at her and said in a quiet humble voice “You look like $100,000”. She fell back in her chair and nodded off again.

Later we went upstairs to bed. She finally left the bathroom and jumped into bed wearing her combinations World War Two memorial night gown and hazmat suite. I looked at her and sheepishly said “You look like $25,000”. She snorted and rolled over.

I couldn’t sleep. I was trying to figure out if I had lost $975,000 that day.

Kenan Bresnan is from Indianola, Iowa

The doctor asked us in the E.R. if we had noticed anything different in recent days before Daddy’s nosebleed, speech impediment, and his crippled arm that look superglued to his side and not moving when he commanded and cursed it. I was puzzled why the doctor thought that what happened before mattered. Any idiot could tell Daddy’d had a stroke. Behavior leading up to it wouldn’t change a thing.

“He seemed red in the face, was grumpier than usual, and got in a fist fight with our old neighbor, Mr. Willis,” Mom said.

“Old neighbor? How old was he?” the doctor asked.

“90.”

“Fist fight about what?” He was writing on the chart and looking over his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Our pear tree limb hung over in his yard. We’d always let him keep the pears on his side of the fence, but he lopped the limb off without asking. Said he needed prunes, not pears. I didn’t hear it all, but I called the sheriff to break it up. I yelled from the porch, but they weren’t stopping. Sheriff told them he’d put them both in jail if they did it again. He didn’t have time for their shenanigans with all the drugs he has to deal with.”

The doctor shook his head. “With hardening of the arteries added to an already decreased blood flow, people begin to act more like children.”

Mama leaned toward the bed and said, “Jack?”

Dad’s eyes moved toward her.

“His eye movements are a good sign. We’re going to go ahead and get that left artery scheduled. It’s like a roto-rooter going in there and breaking up that plaque, so he can get better flow. We’re like old cars. Need new hoses, points and plugs, lube job every now and then.”

Daddy nodded and we said, “Thank you.” The doctor bolted, and daddy’s head turned in the pillow, his eyes closed, and Mama whispered to me: “I’m gonna go by the store and get Mr. Willis some prune juice and tell him your daddy is in the hospital and he’s sorry. It’ll make Mr. Willis feel better about it all and not be scared.”

Niles Reddick is author of the novel Drifting too far from the Shore, two collections Reading the Coffee Grounds and Road Kill Art and Other Oddities, and a novella Lead Me Home. His work has been featured in seventeen anthologies, twenty-one countries, and in over three hundred publications.   http://nilesreddick.com/

 

I am biting into a cookie. Chocolate chip. This is back before cookies were soft and pliant and there would be no crumbs falling to the kitchen floor, linoleum covered with the faint of yellow wax.

It is Tuesday, and my father is late for dinner again. Outside the window, beyond the orange flower curtains, the trees are green and budding. It is April, and everything is young.

I hear the hallway door slam open; an umbrella being stabbed into the stand. It didn’t rain the way mother insisted it would.

I am biting into a cookie when the shadow that is my father walks in. My mother has taken the broom from the closet and is sweeping crumbs into the dustbin. She is kneeling to get the smallest crumbs, and turns her head startled towards my father.

I am biting into a cookie and my mouth freezes open into a cave as my father pulls my mother up by the collar of her flowered housedress. I’ve seen this before. His arm above his head. Tornado in his fist.

My mouth closes around a scream as he lets go of her and crumbles into himself, his arm falling to his side. His face as purple and twisted as a howl.

The grass outside a shiver in the wind, the only sound until the hee-haw of the ambulance whooshing up the street. My mother lifting up my father’s face, brushing crumbs off of his cheek, sweeping everything off to the side.

Francine Witte from New York City

 

I hadn’t thought of high school, those awful best years of my life, since college, not as ghastly. Afterwards I kept things on an uneven keel, keening not keening, that would be unmasculine, suddenly it was out – mine, hers, both? – can’t tell in this light, nothing’s hard, nothing will be, it’s the drink, not age, not me, it may be me, it’s

A screaming comes across the world, the stain of love upon the sky, that can’t be it, and yet

She, not seen since, moved one of the coats on the bed, cloaked the small intruder. “Not here,” she said.

“Where then?”

“Nowhere, I had a crush on you then but I’m in my fifties now and you”

“Never mind about me, just”

Then our song came on, dancing time. She smiled, crooked, led the way downstairs, not touching, we rejoined the party buttoned up as though nothing happened, nothing did, she rejoined her husband, I went outside, couldn’t retch, came back, cold, damp, not miserable, someday she, we’ll laugh, tell no one, blab it all about, what

I grabbed a cold one only to

Clyde Liffey lives in Ivoryton, CT, near the water.

 

 

I suppose I should not have been surprised, but upon taking a leisurely stroll around Walden Pond, who do you think I bumped into? That’s right –– Henry David Thoreau.

Well as I live and breathe! Henry David Thoreau. Can I call you Hank? Stupid question. Another stupid question – what are you doing here?

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.”

Sure, there’s that. But you could be home watching Netflix and chilling.

“As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

I can’t see Netflix using that as a slogan but I could be wrong.

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Now that’s a gem. That could sum up the whole TV streaming thing.

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”

Ooh, that’s a good one too. I guess that’s why you’re out here in the woods instead of home watching TV.

“We need the tonic of wildness.”

Now more than ever, yes sir. Totally agree. What do you make of our current political mess?

“Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something.”

Great advice, but specifically, do you have any suggestions for how we can change things for the better?

“Things do not change; we change.”

Hmmm. I was looking for a more detailed or nuanced solution.

“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify.”

Is is just me or do you have the best answers to just about every question?

“The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.”

I just love, love, love that!

“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

And here you are, all alone. I admire how you can come out here without an entourage or posse.

“I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.”

That’s a great word picture. I wish you had one short enough to go on a bumper sticker.

“All good things are wild and free.”

Amen brother.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

She would be much a woman, quite able to express her thoughts and feelings. (“Tall is good. I like tall.”) She’d be able to talk about herself in favorable terms (“I’m not the kind that sleeps around.”) Most of all, she would ask the right questions.

“How about a drink? On the house.”

“That would be lovely. I was hoping for a chance to talk.”

“What’ll it be? Gin and tonic maybe?”

“Perfect. Beefeater’s, if you have it”

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself up there. Is it really that much fun to play guitar?”

“Most of the time. This is pretty much an ideal gig for me. All three of us are songwriters, so there’s never a shortage of new material. And we keep getting better, knock on wood.”

“There you go. Did you grow up here in Colorado?”

“Houston, actually. My parents both worked for NASA. They wanted me to be a rocket scientist, or a doctor at least, but once I heard Chuck Berry I never looked back.”

“Is music any way to make a living?”

“Not unless you get lucky and write some decent songs. I count on those royalty checks.”

“Tell me about your guitar. What’s that shiny thing?”

“Oh boy. You ask a lot of questions.”

“Can’t help it. It’s what bartenders do, and I write for the Denver Post as a day job. So, tell me about the guitar.”

“Cheers, and thanks. As a reporter, you’ll want the facts: I’ve owned and played a lot of guitars, but this one is special. She’s known as the Boxcar Model, made by Gretsch. That’s the company that built instruments for Chet Atkins, among others.

“The ‘shiny thing’ you asked about is a decorative cover plate protecting the circular resonator cone located inside the body of the guitar. That’s where things get interesting. If you peek in there you’ll see a spun aluminum device that reflects the sound made when you strike the strings and sends it back toward the audience, only louder.”

“Hmmm. Sort of a mechanical amplification system instead of electronic?”

“Exactly. The resonator was invented in the 1920’s by two brothers in California, Ed and Rudy Dopyera. They patented the device with a trademark based on their names, and called it ‘Dobro’, which is a Slavic word that translates as ‘excellent.’

“The company made and sold resonators for mandolins, banjos, even bass fiddles. There were complete orchestras of resonator equipped instruments. Then the electric guitar was invented and everything changed. Any more questions?”

Harpeth Rivers is a writer, musician and happy homeowner still living and working in New Mexico. Check out his latest book, Proof, an illustrated fable, on Amazon.