After a week, a small band of followers started to gather at the bottom of the hill each morning to listen to Barbara’s magnificent voice. She took to wearing a bird-like mask to preserve her anonymity. When these supplicants asked… Continue Reading
I admit to looking down on them. Old men, stooping, dragging their miserable bodies and depressing outlooks into the paths of those still drinking life. The embers of their fading passion spent on letters to local papers complaining about technological… Continue Reading
The crunchy lettuce in her sandwich resounds in her head as she chews, so it’s not until she swallows that Maggie hears the song threading its way through the fug of damp clothes and coffee steam. The melancholic voice conjures… Continue Reading
Him, in a gray coat and red scarf. Him, one hand on the gas pump, the other in his pocket. Him, winking at me while whistling a tune. Me, in the same blue hoodie and jeans I’ve been wearing for… Continue Reading
Anya’s earworm was malfunctioning. There could be no other explanation for what she was feeling: she had caught herself several times humming the melody of a tune that wasn’t her graduation song. Just this morning at breakfast, her fingers had… Continue Reading
Well, I don’t know about you but I find I have a lot to do of a Sunday. There is the car to wash, the lawn to mow and those flowerbeds are not going to weed themselves, are they? And… Continue Reading