Sara dreamed she had been walking Tippy. Pulling up in a Rolls, an eccentric billionaire had stopped to offer one million dollars for him. The offer was declined.
Waking, she mused that five million plus substantial visitation rights would be just about as low as she’d be willing to go.
Phil Huffy writes at his kitchen table in Rochester NY. His work has appeared in nearly one hundred literary journals.
Although labled as weatherproof, Tom’s notebook,
was really only water resistant,
much like many watches, whose level
of protection is limited to soda spills,
and like events.
From memory, he was able to reconstruct
just one of the day’s haiku, the rest being
lost beyond recall.
Phil Huffy stays up late reading Charles Dickens out loud.
Thanks for your cursory note referring to my multiple submissions as “it.”
I would reply more personally, but the volume of rejections received does not permit.
I have carefully considerd every word of your canned response.
Incidentally, two of the pieces have already been published elsewhere.
Phil Huffy wrote this story.
He’d learned that there was no Santa Claus early on, precociously reading gift labels marked “from Santa” on packages Grandma had brought in from her ancient Buick.
Now the same sick feeling emerged as he witnessed a magnificent bald eagle, prince of the skies, dining crow-like, shameless, on roadside carrion.
Phil Huffy writes at a Cheerio-stained kitchen table in Rochester, New York.