drabble – The Night Mail

A Wasp’s Kiss

On a beautiful summer afternoon, you sit talking with a friend. You’ve eaten a delicious lunch including a scrumptious lemon tart; your hands are slightly sticky and sweet. It doesn’t matter; you are relaxed and unconcerned about the attention you may be attracting. From the corner of your eye you observe your new puppy frolicking in the weeds. Happily, she is not nibbling at your hands as she frequently does. But then something tooth-like scrapes across one of your fingertips. Confused for a moment, you realize you have been tasted by a yellow jacket.

Fortunately, it dislikes lemon tart.

Wasp image by Steven Bailey via flickr.com

Robin Anderson

Week End

Free image from flikr.com/the commons

The city grew quiet. A Friday exhalation.

Humans expelled over the countryside in their cars in a single sigh.

Two days away from work and worry, a slim chance to breath.

So the city can rest.

Then. Again.

A gasping Monday inhalation as the metropolis sucks them all back. Into the dark lung of commerce.

Robin Anderson

Tom

Once there was a man on a commune in the Canadian wilds. His name was Tom.

One misty moisty morning, we jumped in my Volkswagen bus and hightailed it for the California desert. He was running—I was in love.

A year we spent squatting on that mining claim in the Chocolate Mountains, living a whiskey fantasy, surviving on beans, rattlesnake, and the kindness of others. I sang for tips in the small-town bar. He got by on charm.

Finally Tom tired of me-it was inevitable. I returned to my Canadian island. He kept running.

Don’t tell my husband, but sometimes I think of him still.

By Mollie Hunt

photo by Ajay-Karpur on unsplash

1816

It would be the fight of his life. A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat. No, it was far more serious. The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake. And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second. But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Image: Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons

Z’Doom

She was stuck. None of the buttons at the bottom of her screen were operative. Eventually they all disappeared. Why shouldn’t she leave the meeting? No one moved, no one spoke. A thin trickle of moisture snaked down her back. Her palms were wet. But she continued to stare straight ahead.

Resolved to stand, she found her butt glued to the chair, her feet fused to the floor. She could not un-rivet her gaze from the screen. She was frozen as were all of her fellow zoomers. They stared into each other’s blank, motionless eyes and prayed for unstable internet.

Image by Arteum-ro via Unsplash.com

Many Questions

“Should those plants be touching?”

“What?”

“Should those two plants be touching each other?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No! Should they be touching? Their leaves are mingling.”

“ Why are you concerned about that?”

“It doesn’t seem right. Is it healthy?”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems bizarre to be concerned about the mingling of leaves. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just wondered if its okay for those leaves to mingle.”

“Why are you so dismissive of my concerns?”

“Fine. Sorry. It is okay for those plants to touch. Better?”

“Yes, thank you . . . what about those two plants?”

Image by Robin Anderson

FERAL

She had always shared her life with cats and dogs. Still, the transformation was a shock. First came the growth of an undercoat on her scalp. Next, her fingernails hardened and curved. When her arms and legs grew excessively hairy, she covered them. When she could no longer grasp her coffee mug, she dashed it against the kitchen wall. After several decades of vegetarianism, she craved, then ate, meat. Raw.

On the last morning, she stripped off her nightgown, running out the back door on all fours. She vaulted the fence. The pets would have to fend for themselves.

Image by Martin Arusala via Unsplash.com

CHANGE

When I was young, I jolted down this narrow canyon in my hot jalopy, windows open, inferno winds in my hair. The river below green and cool as it raced me to the sea. On the beach, I ran, jumped in the frigid ocean and shouted for no reason. I drank cheap beer, ate greasy food and slept in the sand.

Today, the canyon is a crucible but I glide along in refrigerated comfort. The river creeps, sluggish and yellow. The wind has died. I drink fine wine but avoid the crowded beach. Have I changed? Or has the world?

Image by Simon Matzinger via Unsplash.com

This story first appeared at TheDrabble.com OCTOBER 19, 2019

With Feathers

Black-capped chickadee

“Hope” is the thing with feathers. Emily Dickinson

In the kitchen on a warm afternoon, the breeze blowing in an open door. An unexpected movement near the window. That’s not right.

A flutter and chirp. Distress. Small bird inside the house.

The family dog sleeps in the next room so I rise quietly. A black-capped chickadee stares up at me from the sill. Crooning in the face of terror, I try to catch it. Frantic fluttering and shed feathers. Still not right.

Softly, I open two windows, stand back and hope.

YES! It flies out into its world. That is right.

Image by Brandon @greener_30 via Unsplash.com

Harbingers

We should have known. All the signs were there. The slow drift of feathers across the yard. The crow in the leafless tree, feasting upon the body of a songbird. The relentless cold, even as the calendar advanced to days when the soft edge of spring should have cut into winter.

We ignored the dire portents.

Then a phone call.

Now it seems so odd to take out the garbage, bring in the mail, walk the dog, all while knowing you are not here.

Image by Charles Tyler via Unsplash.com