OUR EDITORS DELURK
We didn't think it was fair to challenge all of you to something we weren't willing to do ourselves, so here are our responses to the contest.
Summertime
by Didi Wood
His family spent part of every summer at the cabin. Hide and seek in the woods with his brother, scrambling up a tree, heart thudding so hard the branches shook. Sprawling on blankets by the fire, trading jokes and scary stories. Standing in the river as the water rushed by, stripping him of his worst fears, pummeling him into exhausted purity.
Even his mother brightened at the cabin. She'd sweep briskly, hair caught up in a red bandana. She'd bake cookies, stir something in the kitchen, humming. He'd watch her, glowing inside, so sure that this time it would last.
Grandbaby
by David Shapiro
She's
three
she smiles
she owns me
she's so sure of it
she grinds her booger on my cheek
Dance with a Daunting Foe
by Roger D. Paris
"Can we talk?" Directness masks my hesitation but I can't hide the surrender in my tone.
Silence fills the room and forces all air out. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid as a pair of eyes, full of accusation, slices to the place where I store my guilt. My neck muscles tighten and I feel a twitch at the corner of my eye.
"Please?" Surely I'm not begging. With new resolve, I attempt to lock into the stare that evades me without flinching.
We've reached a familiar standoff. I am weary, and I retreat with a new load of guilt.
Breaking Wind
by Debi Orton
Leafless maples sway in the wind as Canada geese glide in for a river landing. My mangy ginger cat leans against me. Hair stings my face, insinuating itself into my mouth. The drowsing cat stretches, ears rotating, listening for danger or food.
People turn up their collars and scurry down the path behind us, trying to ignore us. Their true opinions are revealed in sideways glances. We break the wind with our substance, but are as welcome here as a fart in church.
No matter. We still sit on the river bank, waiting for salvation or disintegration, listening for change.
Ah Kinchil (Morning sun, Caribbean Sea, Tulum, Mexico, Pentech C300)
by Sean McKlusky
Hamster Resurrectionist
by Mary Estrada
I sit at the kitchen table grooming cedar shavings from the soft matted fur of a dead rodent. Pink tongue lolls between sharp brown teeth. He's not stiff yet, but he's not running on his wheel either. My sobbing daughter looks for a funereal shoebox. I examine the delicate padded paws, pinch his rib cage and feel the subtle shift of his innards. Something fizzes just under the armpit. I cup the body to my nose and breathe him in. He smells like a lucky rabbit's foot. Warmed by my breath, twitching whiskers begin to tickle my palms.
Lazarus wakes.