I drop the bags on the floor thinking I’ll unpack later and slump down onto the couch. Feet up, shoes on, too tired to care. My exhausted mind starts to drift as my eyes close.
Suddenly, a hand hits my face.
“Daddy, I missed you. Will you play with me?”
Ben likes playing with his children, but sometimes it’s hard to get off the couch.
“Can I borrow your paper?”
I looked up and knew she was the one. The universe had thrown us together. Forever. We would tell our children about this moment.
“Please do.”
She finished reading and left without another word.
The universe and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately.
Ben has been trying to write happier stories. He’s not sure this is one of them.
This bit is my favorite. Over the gate and up the side of the ridge to the top.
The wind hits my chest. I stagger and adjust my feet, surprised as always.
You used to say you were truly alive up here, and I’ll forever wish that was still true.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He wishes it was still Christmas.
The relentless sun beat down on the old man in the stern. Ahead, his son pulled in the net, easy movements belying the backbreaking effort. The man looked at the few, undersized fish in the boat and wondered whether he had been right to teach his son everything he knew.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He occasionally writes screenplays, which are primarily treated with indifference, but he lives in hope.
When I was a boy, my grandpa threw baseballs to me. Later, I threw baseballs to my granddaughter. I can’t throw baseballs anymore, but she still puts one in my hand when she visits. I like the feel of it. It makes me wish I’d done it for my grandpa.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He likes writing micro-fiction because people he knows are more likely to read it.
Everyone else is a newcomer. He lived here before they built the road. Before the road gave rise to the houses. Before the houses necessitated the church and the pub. But now they need a school and an old tree can’t be allowed to stand in the way of progress.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He has just started writing micro fiction and hopes to get better at it.
Frank used to hold shells to his ear so that he could hear the sea. But there are no shells here.
He’s not sure why Mom likes this place. There’s no beach. No swimming. No nothing.
If Mom keeps smiling though, Frank thinks he won’t really mind about the shells.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He has just started writing micro fiction and hopes to get better at it.