You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
“It’s from the Mexicans,” she explained, slicing the cake.
“Mom,” I protested. “They have names.”
“I can’t remember…”
“Hugo and Gina. They’ve lived next door for more than a year.”
“They’re nice,” she admitted, “but I don’t let them in.”
Later that afternoon, the “For Sale” sign appeared next door.
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University in Bellevue, NE. He is grateful for those neighbors who welcomed his own immigrant parents and siblings many years ago.
One of the brakes on my bike is broken. It doesn’t matter. It’s flat here.
Smiling white folks wave at me from golf carts. The weather is always warm. I married up.
I wonder if I’m as good as they are. Or as bad. Maybe I’m both. But hopefully neither.
Mr. Tomlin hesitated. Despite their dispute, how could he not give his next-door neighbour a bag of apples when other neighbours received theirs?
He stepped onto the porch, rang the doorbell.
“Want some apples? Bumper crop this year.” He cringed.
The neighbour paused, then said, “Much obliged. You like tomatoes?”
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her published works can be found online, in magazines and anthologies.