Filed under: fiction
When one lives on the wrong side of the edge of the desert, and when one is as aged as I am, one accepts that he will see certain things that other people would not. Mostly this is good, as the things I see are interesting.
I was sitting in my chair in the shade of the little porch I added to my little wooden home, which is built well enough to keep out most of the wind and sand and rattlesnakes. This is where I often am when I see interesting things. This day, I saw in the far distance an upright line. As I watched, the line grew and became a man. Although he walked upright with dignity, his gait told me he was tired. By the time he reached my little home I had water from my good well and a plate of food from my little garden ready for him.
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Filed under: haiku
dogs stop to pee
then resume chase —
clear night
Filed under: fiction
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning … Death.” Fred laughed. “Welcome to Op-Mart. That’s quite a costume, sir. Or ma’am. But I’m going to have to ask you to leave the scythe either in your car or over at the help desk while you
shop.”
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Filed under: haiku
frost advisory –
May Day lilacs
on the table
Filed under: fiction
For all practical purposes, it was just the two of us in the little bar in Las Tres Mujeres, New Mexico. There were five other guys in the place, but two of them had passed out, two were more legitimately asleep, and the fifth was an intensely quiet drunk off in his own little world. That left me and the Mexican-American bar owner named Germán.
The bar, El Cantinero Solo, boasted few modern amenities save the cooler for the cerveza and the satellite TV. The drunks didn’t seem to mind so I overlooked it too.
The TV was showing an American newscast; a superannuated U.S. senator was halfway through a sound bite. I’d been mildly captivated by the fifth drunk and caught only the last part of it.
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Filed under: haiku
brown spring
ice-damaged trees
still barren
Filed under: fiction
Doris Padmore had used the word “dapper” only loosely until Arthur Wyndham first walked into the library. Now, she knew, she was seeing the real thing.
He was slender and stood about 5 feet, 9 inches tall. His hair and moustache, both neatly trimmed, were a rich gray. He wore a brown necktie with his fine three-piece suit of tweed. He removed his coordinating summer fedora upon entering the library. His black wing tips were well, but not slavishly, polished. He wanted only an umbrella or a spaniel to be the very picture of an English gentleman.
Or, Mrs. Padmore thought, a refugee from a time when dressing nicely to go into public view wasn’t considered declasse.
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Filed under: haiku
row of ducks
swims into strong wind
tax day
Filed under: fiction
Fulbert Dorsblatt had trouble sleeping the night before he betrayed his country.
He lay in his neatly made bed, in his well-pressed pajamas, staring into the darkness and trying to calm himself and talk sense into himself.
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Filed under: haiku
wind
blows day
into night
Posted on May 15th, 2008 by bryon
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