So grateful to have my piece, The Village Card and Gift Shop, published in this anthology of stories about Main Street (from The Way Things Were -- the world before Amazon and strip malls).MAIN: An Anthology — Books by Hippocampus Magazine
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The Words
My son is here. He comes in the door and approaches me. I’m in my wheelchair. He reaches down and embraces me. I struggle to say his name, telling myself he deserves the effort. I see the letters in my mind. I try to make the sound that is his name. That name as...
The Ring
Just a Little Today
Just a little in my notebook today To chip away at the block, I promise Pen to paper – a prayer in the silence Though not always calming, not always kind Just a little today, a trickle not A tidal wave to pummel, to engulf Life’s work made so much smaller,...
The Wishbone
My father uses his fingers to pick the chicken clean; only a few scraps remaining from a roast, nearly all the parts useful, even the carcass, which he boils down to the bones. He’ll use the stock later, for a bland soup of potatoes and carrots. Once the wishbone is...
Outside The Church Window
Outside The Church Window Outside the church window Leaves tumble down Softly as flurries The leaves don’t know the season Pale yellow against verdant green Sunflowers unrelenting Zucchini ripening Coreopsis ever blooming Still they fall Death amidst abundance Only...
The Barren Mother
The Barren Mother She hadn’t wanted to look at the baby. She had seen the other two, their shrunken, purplish faces like apple cores left out to dry, obscene against the lacy collars of their christening gowns. But she had yielded, forcing herself to look at this tiny...
The Potter
The Potter Written as a tribute to Bernard Spitz, beloved long-time member of the Unitarian Society of Ridgewood, who died last winter. He had a potter’s hands, smooth as the lip of a pot spun so long that the grit is worn away, clay turning to glass. His thumbs long...
The Glass Eye
She had a glass eye from a beating she had taken when her husband lost his job at the foundry. Who could blame him, really? He couldn’t have known that the punch would land so precisely or that his pinky ring would be so ruinous. By the time her neighbor took her to...