One evening at the Westend Grill, Reid looked up from his chili to see his dead uncle sitting across the table.
Uncle Kirby sported his usual half-smile and red-checkered shirt. He nodded at the bowl.
“I liked lots of crackers in mine, too,” he said.
Reid crumbled in another saltine.
Jim Anderson is a retired college teacher who lives and writes in south-eastern Michigan.
On my nightly route, my headlights caught you on the expressway shoulder, waving a white flag beside a green Pinto. I stopped. Your sister was giving birth. You wanted a cop, but you got a farm boy. I figured, How hard can calving be when the calf weighs seven pounds?
Jim Anderson lives in southeast Michigan with his wife and five cats. He blogs at JimTheWriter.net.
Dad makes every shot. Nothing fazes him, not the windmill blades, the narrow bridge, the ripped carpet on Hole 7.
“They should fix that,” he notes, then drains the tricky putt.
My own ball rims out. Again. I curse it.
“Relax,” Dad tells me, as if he ever could have.
Jim Anderson is a retired college lecturer who lives in Michigan where he reads a lot and writes a little. More of his micro-fiction can be found at JimTheWriter.net.
Across the moat, the tower door stood open. What carelessness!
Klaus crouched by the black water, trying to gauge its depth. Atop fifty feet of curving stone, a guard wandered the battlements, oblivious.
Easy swim. A nearby frog croaked its agreement. Klaus eased himself in.
Around the bend, something splashed.
Jim Anderson is a retired college teacher who lives in south-east Michigan. He reads a lot, and writes a little. More of his micro fiction can be found at jimthewriter.net.