An out-of-season vignette...
Three brass angels fly in a circle above a red candle, golden light reflected in their wings, their cherub bellies. Each holds a tiny wand that rings a delicate bell as they pass...
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Fiction
I’m waist deep in lake water, casting for trout. The only sounds I hear are the occasional crow’s caw and the ‘zzzzz’ of my reel as the line plays out...
The woman in the blue dress appears to move in slow motion, the crowd blurring around her. Her sensible but still flattering pumps, in a shade that precisely matches that of the dress, follow a straight path across the pavement.
Scratch that.
Ten-year-old Maggie begins an August Monday at five a.m. She wakes with the sun and lies still for a minute, listening intently.
A short, short story.
She’s so tired she can barely stand up, let alone contort her body into Downward Facing Dog.
Downward Facing Dog. Who came up with these names anyway?