MAYBE IN A TORNADO

From "Ruth in Winter"

Maybe in a Tornado

Ruth always wore just her robe out to the chicken coop no matter how cold it was. She would only be out for a minute, but this bitter morning the wind chilled her metal scoop even before she got to the garage, burning her hands. It had been a few weeks since the last big snow, and the ground was bare, barren. The grass had withered and dried to brown wisps, and the soil beneath it showed through like grey stone. She walked carefully, even when there was no ice on the ground. She still remembered falling one morning, almost fifteen years ago now. It was one of those winters when she was alone, the cold years of the separation. 

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Published in Every Day Fiction on February 25, 2017

HORSE DREAMS

The dreams were always the same. Ruth had forgotten the horses. They were there, in the pasture behind the machine shed (a pasture that didn't exist in real life). The horses were penned in and had eaten all the hay, had drunk all the water in the rusty trough, and she had forgotten all about them for weeks.

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published August 13, 2015 by Short Fiction Break

ENCOUNTER: CONVERGENCE AND REUNION

Encounter, Part 1: Convergence
2004

 “Boys?” she asked, as if I had planned it that way. “You had all boys?”

I nodded. This wasn’t going so well already.

We were sitting at the dining room table, a pot of tea between us. I looked out the window. The fog was still hovering over the house, though you could see past the grape arbor now. November had started out warm and soggy, but a cold front had come in, and where the fresh snow met the warm earth a thick fog rose up, shrouding everything. She followed my gaze to the yard, and her voice softened with the next question.
"Pete..." she began, "is he still...?" I hesitated. I had no idea how we got into this situation, sitting at my table together.
"Pete..." she began, "is he still...?"
I hesitated. I had no idea how we got into this situation, sitting at my table together....

continue reading on page 59 of the Winter 2015 Issue of Broad! A Gentleperson's Magazine.

These two stories are the "bookends" of my novel, Ruth Harris: Under the Prairie Moon, the first and final stories.

DYLAN AT THE BEAT MUSEUM

DYLAN AT THE BEAT MUSEUM

I went to the beat museum

but they wanted eight dollars.

Eight dollars of my hard earned money.

Eight dollars of my cracking eggs for the people on the sidewalk.

Eight dollars of slicing peppers and peeling onions in a kitchen

inside a truck.

Eight dollars of my eyes weeping as I slice.

Eight dollars, man.

For eight dollars I could buy a roll of paper

or a typewriter ribbon

to unroll my blood, sweat, and tears

down Woody Guthrie’s ribbon of highway

in this, MY land

of Earth, Wind, and Fire

all the way home.

I stand with my hand out

on the sidewalk.

Not asking for eggs, or egg money or pin money or pin numbers

Not asking for a lower tax rate or higher fences

or to sanctify gay marriage or to marry a sanctimonious bastard.

Just asking

for eight dollars.

Just asking

to see some Beats.

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for the Beat Museum today.

Can I borrow eight dollars, man?

THE BEEHIVE

 

I want a beehive for my tombstone

No formaldehyde for me

Just sprinkle seeds of clover

I’ll be breakfast for the bee.

For I’ve lived my life in cycles

And this is just one more

I’ll be waiting for the morning to arrive.

And the bee will take me round the bend

And then she will return

Collecting her nectar for the hive

I want a beehive for my tombstone

No formaldehyde for me

Just sprinkle seeds of clover

I’ll be breakfast for the bee.

Now only cry a little

And only for the beauty

For the clover will make seeds of her own.

And the bee will keep the cycle

And the sun will rise again

And someone may remember my song

I want a beehive for my tombstone

No formaldehyde for me

Just sprinkle seeds of clover

I’ll be breakfast for the bee.

For I’ve lived my life in cycles

And this is just one more

I’ll be waiting for the morning to arrive.

And the bee will take me round the bend

And then she will return

Sipping sweet honey from the hive

I want a beehive for my tombstone

No formaldehyde for me

Just sprinkle seeds of clover

I’ll be breakfast for the bee.

I want a beehive for my tombstone

No formaldehyde for me

Just sprinkle seeds of clover

I’ll be breakfast for the bee.