Your white veil is an impenetrable mist that I can’t get through.
Pastor: “The rings, please.”
I know your covered eyes are fastened on mine.
Louder. “The rings?”
I step forward, deliver the rings.
It’s not too late. Just give me a sign. Anything.
I step away. A coward’s destiny.
Lou is a retired archaeologist from the University of New Mexico.
The two old friends arrive at dawn, as they have every Saturday for sixteen years. Toting shotgun and shovel, the man slowly, lovingly leads his dog toward their favorite blind.
Ducks rise. Clouded, intelligent eyes and soft grey muzzle scan skyward.
Forevermore, the retriever anticipates the roar of the gun.
Lou is trying to write stuff that makes sense to dogs and ducks. He has given up on people with guns.
The flat green line. The monitor said… dead.
Years after her heart stopped, mine remains shattered but “healthy.”
I’ve tried to reassemble. I think good thoughts, fond memories. Piece by piece its coming back together. My shattered heart. I thought I felt it today. Alas… it is made of stone.
Lou Romero wanders around the New Mexico desert in his old truck, looking for signs. The signs usually tell him, “Why not stop here and eat a burrito?”
Uncle Willy’s rescued Heeler pup grew into an sneaky biter. Nine leg bites in two years.
After bite ten, Willy retaliated with a toothy gnash to the dog’s foreleg. A respectful friendship ensued, perhaps the first for each.
Limping along our grim barrio streets, they plant a seed of hope.
Lou is new to the 50-word story world. He now knows what a trout feels like when the hook is set. He takes writing classes at the University of New Mexico.