Short story writing and creative fiction, essays and non-fiction stories.

It was one of those days in the middle of spring that come along to humble you and remind you that Mother Nature is the ultimate ego; spitting and crying at once, soaking you and freezing you and making you walk with your shoulders up around your ears and the coat you’ve all but forgotten about pulled tightly across your back. One of those bitter half-green half-grey days where ice piled up and fell over chunks of wild onions and yellow wildflowers.

There was snow falling inside the frozen rain but it was so outnumbered I couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.

The poor weather looked like the invisible riot that takes place between good and bad, and today, the angels were being pummeled and thrown between the group of demons while they each took their turn taking blows against them. It was a day that was completely void of the ability to decide, crippled, and this indecisive energy seemed to seep into the minds of the people that inhabited the hours like a cruel and illegal social experiment meant to show us exactly how controlled we really are. There were people who assumed authority against the storm, completely prepared, rain boots and umbrellas poised like riot gear worn by the cops and squads, as well as some zombie like creatures, who still rely on their parents to give them a daily rundown, including lunch money and a weather report.

As for me, I was something in the middle of creature and riot cop. No umbrella protected me as I broke through the tantrum, but I did pull my coat tightly around me, and that was good enough.

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As I pulled into the parking lot, I cast a frustrated glance at the backseat. If my father had given me due warning, I would never have agreed to bring his dogs to the funeral, but surprise had caught me off guard. Now they were patiently gnawing on my armrests as I scanned the row ahead of me for a parking spot. Letting no good deed go unpunished, the parking lot gods had already filled all the spots in the section closet to the funeral home.

I stopped the car and sighed, then slowly lifted my hands off the steering wheel, reveling in the way my skin stuck to the hot leather. It was one of my few pleasures about summertime heat, the slow, almost painful separation that only happens after two objects have been forced together for a long while. I would always get the smallest bit scared in the final moments before the leather lost its grip on the last patch of skin. It was as if I was never sure if they would part; but they always did, and the soft snap of two surfaces being torn so smoothly from one another was the most satisfying aspect of the whole affair.
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It was love at first sight. He was ambling alongside the road with a McDonald’s French fry box in his mouth, and something about those big sorrowful eyes, copper brown and pleading, tugged at my heart, and the steering wheel, forcing me to pull over and offer him a ride.

The scene was straight from a chic flick movie. I called out. He turned. He dropped the box and ran to me, his tongue outstretched, his tail wagging, rushing into my arms and delivering a big, slobbery kiss right on the lips. I was his heroine, his savior, and he gladly jumped into the truck and sat beside me as though we were destined to be together.

The stretch of road south of my home is flat and desolate, with acres of sandy fields running along White River. The area is a common dump site for the unwanted, and judging by the visible outline of his ribcage and sunken eyes, my new pet had seen better days. Raised around coon dogs, I knew the gangly creature to be a blue tick hound, probably about four or five months old. Bluish-black in color, with white spots, or ticking, spread over his body, he is an animated replica of one of my youngest son’s splotchy artworks hanging on the refrigerator. One ear and eye are completely black, giving him a half pirate, half Little Rascals comical appearance that makes him even more pitiful and endearing.
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She loved to watch him.

She loved to get lost in the very few, but deep, aging lines in his forehead, imagining the struggles he has had in his life, and recognizing how beautifully they had shaped a boy into this man that stood before her.

She loved hearing his voice like an American audience hearing a French opera; not speaking the language but holding hopes for the day when they might understand the meaning of those so elegantly grouped together words in a tone that confirms mastery of the language. A tone that humors you as you try to keep up. His lips would quiver in a very secretive manner when he made a joke and no one could process it fast enough to share his childish giggle.
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Aunt Ellie had a secret past. As kids, we all instinctively recognised this from the way the family treated her. There were a lot of sidelong looks, lowered voices, and a general air of disapproval whenever her name was mentioned.

We all loved her. She was so different from all the other grown-ups, with her wild grey hair caught up in a comb that never quite managed to capture those wayward curls. She wore long floating skirts, and low-cut tops showing acres of chest that crinkled like tissue paper when she folded her arms. In summer she wore sandals, and in winter, soft leather boots with a smelly old shaggy coat she called an ‘afghan’. And she walked around singing all the time.
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