by Gita Smith
you sidled up to me just as I slipped on
my Party Mask of Indifference.
The floor vibrated with dance steps
(the tune, in case you need to know,
in case you want to make it “our song,”
was Soul Sacrifice by Santana)
and you were a glowing object on my periphery.
“Dance?” you asked.
I turned, seeing you for the first time, taking in your loose-limbed posture, your frank and curious eyes
and answered, “Sure, why not?”
Some hours later when the crowd had thinned,
you placed your hand on mine and leaned in close.
“I’d like to take you home,” you said.
“To meet your mother?”
“Something like that,” you laughed.
With no more sureness than a baby bird
about to take its first, precarious flight,
I contemplated gravity.
I judged your pull to be non-fatal
and answered, “Sure, why not?”
by Joe Gensle
I lost patience with my daughter, had to pull her off of ‘em, scolding ‘em for this very thing.
“Enough, Belva-Jean! The kids aren’t the problem. You are.”
“PAPA! How COULD you!!”
“You don’t speak their language so you can’t understand it.”
“How’s that, Papa?” she demanded, indignant.
“I raised you right, didn’t I?”
“What’s the point?!”
“Took you to church, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“My grandkids are havin’ a religious experience!”
She glared, hands on hips.
“Sure, honey. ‘It’s all good.’ That’s biblical! Romans, chapter 8 an’ 28– QUOTE:
‘And we know that in all things God works for the good,’ blah-blah. See? It’s ALL GOOD, Belva-Jean!”
She fought a smile. I winked at the kids, who laughed and bumped fists.
“That’s not FAIR, Papa!” she said with a stomp in mock anger, spreading a grin.
“What-EV-ER, Belva-Jean!”
The grandkids lost it. Belva-Jean threw a throw pillow.
“Careful! I can quote ‘Whatever’ from the Good Book, too!”
I wasn’t the grandkids’ hero very long once she told them I showed her the error of her ways. My daughter’s dragging them to church this Sunday and every Sunday, thereafter.
Seems I have a fishing engagement and can’t join ‘em. Poor little bastards.
Belva-Jean’s mama sure wasn’t a vindictive bitch.
Now where’d that gol-dern rod an’ reel get to….
by Paul de Denus
On the same day – at exactly the same time – ninety-seven-year old Carmen Whitehead, a suffering multi-billionaire recluse, received a similar box.
“The joys of the rich,” he smirked, absently rubbing his chest as his spindly assistant skittered about, making last-minute preparations around the life-support system.
Carmen couldn’t remember when he had first discovered the box. It had been long ago, in some long forgotten country where fantasy and reality seemed to meld together. He couldn’t recall the details. It was as if the box had always been. It was everything then, the box giving him virtually all the wealth and power he desired, allowing him to do things he’d never questioned, not even now.
In the operating room of his private island’s medical center, a shark’s smile swallowed his hardened face as he examined the contents of the box again. The newly delivered heart appeared perfect, absolutely perfect.
Good gifts come in small packages.
by Bill Lapham
“The Most Interesting Man in the World” ran a distant second to Tim, he just didn’t brag about it; he let the Dos Equis beer man enjoy all the fame. Tim cared for none of it.
Then one day Tim couldn’t remember his wife’s name. He saw a doctor who ordered tests that came back positive for early onset dementia. When the doctor gave Tim the diagnosis, he drove home, put the barrel of a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the…
by Sandra Davies
Last night’s meal had ended in argument, this morning she had appeared just before nine, immaculate as ever, despite it being Sunday. His answering the door, unshaven and barefoot, wearing old jeans and an ancient university sweatshirt, graphically underlined her failure to integrate him within her world. She did pride herself on her success in infiltrating his, but had she told him – not that he needed telling, since he was more astute than people credited him for – he would have laughed in her face knowing that she was merely paddling in the shallows, was unaware of the depths.
He recognised that she was, to put it crudely, posh girl believing she had found herself a bit of rough, and although he had behaved well within the bounds of civilisation, not bothering to act up to her fantasy, she still wanted to smooth his uneven edges. He had been both irritated and resistant and neither wanted nor needed her enough to let himself be so polished, but saw no point in hurting or antagonising her. Steering between truth and tact as he closed the boot of her car on the last of her neatly-boxed possessions he said ‘I hear that the ‘Herald’ has a new arts reporter, I suggest you get yourself along to ‘Tosca’ next week.’
by Amy Hale Auker
We are seven miles from the nearest man-made building, and we’ve just gotten our cows thrown together for the trek towards home. Of course, one of the babies in the herd is without his mother, but he doesn’t want to leave the safety of aunties and cousins, no matter how hard we try to cut him back. He huddles, perhaps smarter than we are, under the necks and flanks of mama cows who stand with heads down, waiting the storm. Without us, they’d be off in the creek, down low, lying quietly chewing their cud, content that thunder happens and storms come.
A bright and dense finger of lightning descends, zapping the red rock rim above me. You yell, “STEP OFF!”
I stand on solid ground as my horse tries to jerk the reins from my hands and run. He is shod with iron.
I curse the cowboy who once said, “We’ll take a rain or a calf, any day.”
by Bolton Carley
“The one with the Q-tip afro perm?” I asked.
“Yeah, her. What do you think she’s like now?” Missy and I had spent many an hour staring at old yearbooks in the school library envisioning people’s lives post small town upbringings.
“Oh, there’s no question about her. Look at that cat t-shirt. It couldn’t be more obvious.” I state confidently.
“What does the cat t-shirt have to do with anything?” she asked as I stared at her in dismay. How could she not get it?
“A cat t-shirt says it all. It is a well-known fact if you wear kitty-cats rolling a ball of yarn as a child you become a grandma-type by age 26. The only difference is that they start dressing in standard issue gray sweatshirts with lavendar and pink ribbons instead of t-shirts because they get cold so easily. That sweatshirt will hide a crumpled Kleenex tucked in the sleeve and be worn with pajama pants or elastic-waist jeans that taper in at her orthopedic white sneakers. Guarantee she still has curly hair, has never even considered dying it even though it’s as gray as foggy mornings, lives with at least 2 cats, and a husband who doesn’t deserve her. She babysits her grandkids for free every day, needlepoints cat dish towels and doilies in her rocking chair every evening, and hand-paints calicos and Siamese Christmas ornaments for the annual craft fair which she arrives at wearing her parka and furry mittens calling everybody ‘honey’. Bottom line: everybody knows that a kitten shirt equals a naively sweet woman.”
by Michael D. Brown
“Enjoy it for what it is. When we met–something about your eyes–couldn’t say for sure, but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave. Matter of fact, because we didn’t hit it off at first I knew it was a thing.”
“You make me question my own esthetics.”
“Not a bad thing.”
Len nods. Annoyed?
“Do you always trust first impressions?”
“How do you take step two, if the first isn’t on firm ground?”
“People continue to reveal themselves over years.”
“Are you trying to Gaslight me?”
“It’s the sincerity of your smile when you’re amused. How appealing. Of course, now I’ve mentioned it…”
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips. Giggles. Touches marble as I have. Then looks at us and stops giggling but continues smiling.
“How charming is this little guy?” Len asks, reaching to pat his head, but the child walks away. He stops with his back to us at a sculpture of a nude woman.
“Touch this,” I suggest. It’s cold and sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can get it he appreciates it. Some things just take time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an urge to say something clever.
He says, “Let’s go look at some paintings.”
MudSpots 