In Fiction on December 12, 2013 at 10:50 am
The mural’s colors were garish and rich—deep bronze Indians circling the bright white canopies of a wagon train. Behind, the green trees seemed fluorescent against the shade of a deep wood.
Covered in gray dust and aching from the day, Joe stopped to consider this reconstruction of his people’s history. The romanticism. The racism.
A proud, untrammeled tribe seemed to wake in his heart.
But it was an odd stirring, and as Joe looked ahead, up the boardwalk to the squat row of beige townhouses with their faded lawns and collected refuse, he suddenly bent to unlace his boots.
When he stepped through—onto the cool grass, into the caravan—they were all that he left behind.
In Fiction on December 9, 2013 at 1:37 pm
“Sit, Mr. Brennan. Your wound is weeping.”
When I turned, Philippe Bonté was sitting at the white marble counter, delicately stirring a coffee.
“How’d you do that?” I asked, slow to comprehend. “You weren’t there before.”
“I wasn’t?” he asked innocently. “Well, if you’re sure… You really are a magnificent detective, Mr. Brennan. Voudriez-vous un café?”
I crossed the room in three long strides and put my pistol beneath his chin.
“Non, merci,” I said, readying the hammer with a click, but Bonté didn’t so much as flinch. He wiped his mouth and waved the napkin in the air like a little white flag.
In Fiction on December 6, 2013 at 5:21 pm
Sunlight strikes the basin and reflections dazzle.
Shining waves are chasing as I slowly paddle.
I pull the oars, myopic, intent upon the beach,
while depths of wondrous mysteries lumber
This short poem is my response to this week’s Trifextra challenge, which was to add 30 words to these three: Myopic, Dazzle and Basin.
Let me know what you think in the comments below, and check out the rest of this week’s stories!