His tattooed hands and leathered feet scale the fence around her pear tree.
With grey hairs clinging to window panes, she watches him harvest six squirrel-broken pears.
He takes one; eats. “Amen,” she whispers, witnessing his holy jacket, his ripped right pants leg, his feet returning from whence he came.
Jean Kari sometimes finds herself doing everything but what her real job requires.
The story of the week for March 13 to 17 is…
The Feeling of Guilt Felt in Private by a Child by John Gabriel Adkins
I’m sure we can all identify with the complex emotional landscape of childhood, and this story evokes that very well.
People usually covered their ears, or skipped the aviary altogether. Oddly, the squawking didn’t phase the little girl or her mother. They smiled, admiring the large, colorful birds.
The zookeeper wondered how anyone could tolerate such obnoxious shrieking when suddenly the child lifted her tiny hands and signed, “Pretty feathers.”
Pontius Paiva is loud and colorful. And although he probably belongs in a cage, he’s flying high at pontiuspaiva.com
Cuddling that bright morning. Our relationship
had been called lovingkindness by Buddha himself
one ancient morning as the Morningstar appeared.
Like enlightenment, her eyes flashed,
kidneys failing: her urine ran clear like water.
My startled response frightened her.
Yet her eyes said, it’s okay,
see you next time my love.
Matthew lives in Maine. He still remembers the day his son called from school. His student teacher had brought three kittens in a cardboard box from her dorm. “Please, can I bring one home?”
Papers presented, I traveled across the Pacific. Heat and humidity attacked, but worse was the immediate detainment upon arrival. Inspected, processed, and observed; there is no freedom for my kind. They seek carriers and assume guilt.
On the 120th day it’s proved I’ve not transported the illness, and I’m retrieved.
Jennifer Miller is quite pleased she wasn’t exposed to rabies while living in Hawaii. See more at fuelandflavor.com
After eight long years and twenty-four hours of hard labour, he finally arrived at his destination. Cold, and with no clothes to call his own, he screamed at everyone in the room. His demands were food, warmth, and love.
“Come on, wrap baby up nice and warm,” said the nurse.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories, technical articles, photography and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
“If that boy ever bothers you again,” says my Uncle Tommy, “punch him.”
He shows me his prize-winning right hook, but I can’t take my eyes off his nose, spread across his face like a pancake.
“How many fights did you win?” I ask.
He laughs and ruffles my hair.
Daniel teaches English in Poland, among other things.
The hospice nurse used an eyedropper to slip more morphine beneath his tongue. The whole problem was God. God’s absence throughout. That summed it up. God at the beginning, pressing dimples into your chin. God at the end, sliding his hand over your eyelids, saying, Shush. That’s enough for now.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net
“One barn cat’s enough,” Ma answered. “More, they’ll steal the chicks.”
Pa fetched an old grain sack.
At the pond, he paused a moment, still as stone, before turning away. Seeing I’d followed, he squatted, blocking my view, big hands wiping my cheeks.
Then he stood. “Best milk those cows.”
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poetry, and sometimes micro-fiction. This story previously appeared in The Binnacle’s ultra-short edition, Fall, 2016. If you’d like to know more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com
Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.
What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.
Cal lives in Hillsborough, NC where he writes experimental fiction, reads detective novels, and talks to his houseplants.