Searching San Saba_"Death Is Easy, Fiction Is Hard."_The Song in Her Blood_For Once, Pleas
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Searching San Saba
He chose San Saba because of Tommy Lee Jones. Two hours from their home in San Antonio, the place was a far enough drive to feel like a vacation. He pulled up the town’s website on his phone and showed Colleen, his wife, the images—a street lined with old-fashioned brick and stone buildings, pecan trees, a bridge over the Colorado river. “The hotel has a special rate for weekdays,” he said. “And there’s a winery nearby.” They couldn’t afford much more than that, Dennis Hardy had lost his job right after Christmas. Five months with no prospects, he took a part-time position at a local hardware ...
"Death Is Easy, Fiction Is Hard."
"So, when is he arriving?" So asked the skeptical voice of the woman on the phone. He knew the tone all too well, "He generally arrives around nine, always nine on a Thursday." "He died on a Thuwww.onedoor.ccrsday I take it?" John indulged in the skepticism of the caller, "Yes, about five years ago but he still comes for our nightly chess game. He always liked chess and we discussed all sorts of topics when he was alive." "And now? What could he possibly want to discuss?" Amused by the question, "We seem to talk as if nothing has changed since his death. I think sometimes he forgets he...
The Song in Her Blood
Women work slowly in a hunched line, harvesting a crop they will never taste; laboring on the land they used to own. The wind holds a whispered conversation with the barley, even as the scythes cut it down. My sister’s hair streams in the air, a thin red cloud, as her head slowly rises. She watches like the trees. She watches the three soldiers. They are clothed in red, gold and brown as if they mean to outshine the autumn. As my sister watches them turn and leave, I know she has the same thought as I do: thank the Fae that the Roman women are meek and obedient. Thank the Fae that the autumn ...
For Once, Please Listen to Your Annoying Sister-In-Law
Only expensive fabric on a mannequin, but a blooming white flower on the woman you love. Her wedding dress cost half of last month’s salary. And she spun in it, creating ripples of white lace and sewn pearls like a daisy in the wind. And her smile. A smile from a feeling only that dress could generate. A smile I’ve only seen on our wedding day. A smile worth a thousand wedding dresses. A smile I miss. A smile I haven’t seen ever again. I haven’t seen any smile in a while, either. But, I don’t move past that day, past that moment. I just keep playing it back, reliving it. The brief moments of ...