The Boy and the Flying Machine; A Short Story

He fell from the sky, one rain-lashed night, slipping through the clouds on tattered wings.

He called himself Ashari.

He was long and lean and tawny-colored. He couldn't have been much older than I was, but he knew about things. In that soft, strong voice of his, he spoke of a world I'd never seen. Of mountains and waterfalls, and plains that stretched, like the sea, for as far as the eye could reach and rippled in shades of brown and green. 
His dialect was strange to me at first, but as I sat, hour after hour, and listened to his stories, I grew accustomed to hearing him. He spoke in pictures, sometimes, describing the words that held no meaning for me, drawing images in the air with grease-splattered hands. It was good to sit and hear about distant lands. It was good to forget, for a while, the troubles of my own small life and the dark memories of the nights.

But that, of course, was after.
When he arrived in the village, no-one dared approach the flying machine. There wa…


I am the one who perches precariously on the edges of life.

Always second-guessing. Always keeping my options open. Always with some escape hatch in the back of my mind.

Just in case.

And you? You're the one who comes along and pushes me off the edge.

You're the one who trusts my instincts, even when I'm in the midst of explaining that I really can't swim.

A firm shove in the small of my back.

A terrifying rush of empty space.

And suddenly, there I am, in too deep...and swimming.

And, as my head breaks the surface and I realize that I haven't drowned, I look up, catch the twinkle in your eye, and laugh.

Written in response to this prompt.

Saturday Morning at the Beach


One Morning at Stein's Pawnshop; A Short Story

The bell above the door had long ago ceased to fulfill its purpose in life. Instead, it was a broadening shaft of morning sun let in by the opening door that caught Stein's attention. Reflexively adopting a tough expression, he looked up to see who'd come in.
"Oh." His harshness melted a little at the edges. "It's you, Peg."
"It's me." Peg confirmed. She stepped forward, and the sun made a momentary halo of her yellow curls before the door closed and shut it off. 
Stein noticed, with apprehension, that her hands were trembling slightly, as they always did when she was preparing herself for something. "Look, you're a good girl, Peg," he said, hurriedly, "but if it's about that job. Well, I've already given you my answer and it's final. This shop can barely support me and the boy."

"I said I wouldn't ask you again an' I won't." Peg drew a deep breath, bracing herself.

Don't you le…



Summer Magic

This summer magic Makes us young again, And sends us forth In re-found innocence To marvel at the grass-heads  As we lie And bask like turtles At the river's brim.
From wishes blown in Dandelion fluff, Our eyes awake to wonder At the dance Of fireflies As dusk falls on the trees And meteors make  Lines across the sky.
These heights of summer, Coming in our prime, Recall us, with The wisdom of our years, To turn again and ponder Whence we came And stir our souls to  Search for simpler things And see the splendor of them, And be glad.

Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompt: Summer Magic

Psalm 1