Supper

The neon signs in the diner vibrated with a hum as he sat beneath them. His usual corner booth. Clock over the stove hung upside down and ran backwards. The waitress, same apron, sneakers, stale cigarette smell, and dove tattoo across her wrist came over. “What’ll it be?” He got a plate of fried chicken, biscuit on the side, local ale. She pocketed the paper menu and didn’t write anything down. It was the same order—She knew at the end of the meal he’d drop two twenties and tell her to keep the difference. He removed a cigarette and lit up, and he knew she wouldn’t complain.

No. 125

Inspection

Three men lowered the flag at the Iraqi consulate. One manned the ropes, pulling the flag slowly towards them. The second man held his arms outstretched to grab the dropping corner as it approached the ground. The third man observed from the side. Once they retrieved it, the third man turned the fabric over in his hands.

Then, the first man started pulling the ropes in the other way. The others raised it above their heads until the wind got hold and the fabric flew.

No. 112

A Gift

The sun descends behind the mountain, changing the light. The breeze adjusts its mood, brings a chill into the canyon. A man in a sport coat opens a metal gate to a bungalow hidden behind a manicured bush. Leaving the gate open, it’s easy to watch him place a single tulip on the brick steps. He knocks three times, though I cannot hear it. Returning to the sidewalk, the metal gate closes slowly, then latches with a click. Sunlight briefly illuminated the tulip as the man stepped away, then it disappeared from my sight. 

No. 111

Solstice

An elderly neighbor carried a red umbrella onto her back patio. She carefully placed it in its holder, then with shaky hands lifted the central runner, stretching the canopy into its open position. Once settled, she used a frayed rope to tie the umbrella to the railing along the deck. As she sat in the shade, she listened to the wind and birdsong, the first sounds of summer.

No. 102

Boarder

Home for the summer, a neighbor boy rides his skateboard every night. The rhythmic rolling of the wheels sounds before the thump of impact and the sound of steps as he regains his footing and prevents a tumble. This irritates the dog, who sends barks in the teen’s direction. He gathers his skateboard and goes to a side road with a steeper grade. There he can find his balance, gain speed, and build his skills without criticism.

No. 099

Ren Faire

The dog sniffed at the base of a flowering jacaranda, violet petals falling softly from the branches and coating the grassy lawn. Across the street, people began streaming out of an apartment building. The women wore dresses or tunics with flower crowns. The men were dressed as knights and jesters. There were kings and queens, plastic, bejeweled crowns atop their heads. They carried flagons and steins, plastic swords and rapiers, bows and quivers. Passing cars honked. Neighbors stared, took photos, commented on the number of friends. The group posed in front of white flowering bushes along the fenceline, then piled into a black van, rented out for the occasion. In true fashion, a lone friar exited the building late and was the last to board the vessel.

No. 052

Call & Response

Whispering questions to cascading water. Watch it come to a boil, and pour it into a mug to clear this days-old congestion. When it’s finished, I hope to find the answers in the leaves.

No. 042