The mournful wailing froze Conn O’Neill’s blood, as it always did. People said the sound the stuka dive-bombers made came from sirens the Germans fitted to their planes. Well, maybe. But Conn, fighting for Allied forces in northern France, knew… Continue Reading
The morning milk was sour and Mom blamed me, sent me back to the liquor store to buy a fresh carton even though it wasn’t my fault it went sour. I said it was probably the little people and she… Continue Reading
The day came lilac and hazy. Trees whispered sluggish, cotton greetings. A crow, from its high cedar perch, blasted a call to its mate three trees down. I sat on the porch and watched the birds fly over — smudges… Continue Reading
“I wish you wouldn’t leave out your oatmeal bowls,” the young husband said to his young wife. “They attract ants. It’s really disgusting.” “At least I don’t leave a dozen such oatmeal bowls hidden all over the room, under blankets… Continue Reading