Before winter, Mom’s garden glowed with lanterns where ladybugs nested but forgot how to leave, curling up like Mom on the kitchen floor after her Christmas stroke.
She would’ve remembered to free them in winter.
We didn’t.
Come spring, a green breeze shakes out dried memories of last year’s joy.
Rachel Burns is a student of creative writing. Her current project is a chapbook comprised of poetry and prose.
The waitress squared her shoulders and marched over. “Whatchuwant?” she asked.
He didn’t look up. Thick fingers anguished his thinning hair. “Just pie,” he said, head hung.
“Kind?”
“Pecan.”
Deafjerk didn’t even notice me, she thought, and spit—just a little—on her ex-husband’s slice before the dollop of cream.
Rachel Burns is a current student whose latest writing project is a chapbook collection of flash fiction and poetry.