Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs. She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration and covetous love. And arise from more ancient stock than she.
Image by Becky Kjelstrom
dip, dart, twist, soar, slide
above wind tossed branches
ecstatic crow flies
by Harrison Fulop
First of Summer. Now darkness grows.
Image by Robin Anderson
e noticed her first. Tall and beautiful, she gazed about the garden until, at last, she saw him. She looked away quickly, confused. Was it usual to be stared at so rudely? She fled into the shadows.
But she returned. She grew used to seeing him, watching her. He did nothing to alarm her. One day, to both their surprise, she smiled.
They talked all summer, about their hopes, fears, eventually about their future together. But in their swift slide into love, they forgot one thing.
*****
“Honey, it’s time to bring the garden decorations in. It’s going to freeze tonight.”
If I say to you white is all, black is absence. If you say to me black is all and white is absence. Are we talking about light or pigment? Are we talking about physics or art? Or are we cheering the home team?
Decay of velvet
Heathens among the roses
Thorns, attar of dirt
Image by Rodion Kutsaev via Unsplash.com
When I read her stories, as I do, at times obsessively, I become uncomfortable with the way she seems mired in her awareness of her own consciousness, her self-conscious awareness of herself and I wonder, uncomfortably, if I am mired in her self-consciousness or if she is mired in my awareness of my consciousness, my self-conscious awareness of how I am obsessively mired in her stories.
Image by Harrison Fulop
a drabble by Becky Kjelstrom
The Grundvig chin. The whole family gets it. Dominant gene. My baby won’t. CRSPR is new officially not for sale. My baby will have a perfect chin. Money buys on demand birth and good drugs. But I still have to push. C-Section leaves a scar, visible if you go Brazilian.
Despite the numbness, I feel her coming. She’s howling mad. Mate cuts the cord, nurse wipes her off and hands her to me. I look at baby, mate, baby. My turn to howl, raw anguish.
The Wilson receding chin. Recessive gene. We didn’t correct for that.
Heat and dust. The little girl kicked a stone down the road. No fair! Sent to the store twice in one day, a quarter clutched in her small, sweaty hand.
At the corner the old woman with the sun hat still worked in her yard. This morning she’d been clipping roses, now she was cutting rhubarb with a sharp knife. Whack! at the ground. Whack! again at the top. A pile of shiny red stalks at her feet, huge wilting leaves heaped on the grass.
Little Girl put her head down and walked faster. Too late. “Barbara Jayne! Would you like to take some rhubarb to your mother?” “No! I hafta go to the store!” She broke into a run. “Your mother makes such lovely pies.”
Little Girl ran faster down the long hill. She stopped at the crossing, hopped into the street as a car horn blared, raced to the curb and up the steps to the store. Inside it was stuffy but cooler. The fat storeman smoked at the back counter, looked up from his newspaper. “Back again, huh?” Little Girl laid the quarter on the counter. “Loaf of bread, quart of milk.” The storeman’s eyebrow shot up. “Please!”
He fetched the milk from the icebox, the bread from the bin, took the quarter. “You got change comin’ or do you want some candy?” “No!” Little Girl grabbed the groceries. “Ma says put it on her account.” She slammed out the door, into the blinding afternoon.
The hill was steeper now that she was walking up it. She was thirsty, should have bought a soda. But Sister would have seen the bottle and told on her. Pooh. She stopped, tried to put the loaf of bread on her head for shade. It wouldn’t stay, dropped in the dusty road. A car was coming! She picked up the loaf, wiped the package clean on her dress and turned her back on the swirl of dust stirred up by the passing auto.
By the time she reached the top of the hill, Little Girl thought a drink of milk might be a good idea. Nope. She’d be in trouble with Sister for opening the bottle.
At the corner, Old Woman had disappeared from her yard, the rhubarb stalks were gone, too. But the big green leaves still lay on the grass. Little Girl looked up and down the road. She looked at Old Woman’s house. No one. Setting the milk and bread at the side of the road, she picked up a rhubarb leaf, plonked it on her head. Cool relief!
Little Girl walked toward home, remembering, in the nick of time, to turn back and fetch the bread and milk from the roadside.
“Hurry up, slow poke! That milk will be curdled by the time you get in here.” Sister stood on the porch. “What do you have on your head?” Ma stood at the kitchen window, laughing.
“Sun hat!” Little Girl tipped her head back, stuck out her tongue.
Sister bounded off the porch, jerked the milk and bread out of Little Girl’s hands. “Come on! Ma’s gonna make a rhubarb pie for dinner. You gotta go to the store for butter.”
a dribble
I’m surrounded by them. This was a quiet urban neighborhood. It’s not them, themselves. They’re shy, well-meaning. The 24/7 scratching tears at my eardrums. The putrid smell invades my sinuses. I’ve sharpened my butcherknife, dreamed of whacking off their heads. I could eat the meat, but what about all the feathers?
