The wind whistles steadily past like a train. Past the garage where I sit in the dark with a cold cup of yesterday’s coffee, smoking a cigarette I thought I’d given up. I look out at the back yard, brushed with snow and painted by moonlight. There’s a dark patch of pachysandra that grows by the thin line of trees that separates our yard from the neighbors. I’d planted sprigs there a decade ago and it’s happily spread itself into a crowd. A deer weaves between the spaces of bright snow and dark night, nose into the wind, and I wonder if I should follow.
Flash Fiction Fridays
- 100 DAYS – 100 STORIES 2010
- Current Affairs
- MY WORK
TagsA Death in The Family At Swim Two Birds Barthes BASS Black Swan Green Blindness BLOGGING Borges Calvino Clockwork Orange Confrontation Consolation of Philosophy Cormac McCarthy DeLillo EDUCATION Faulkner Flatland Geronimo Sandoval Glimmer Train Henderson The Rain King if on a winter's night a traveler Ishiguro Jamestown Kundera Life of Pi LITERATURE Margaret Atwood Marquez Master and Margarita Munro Murakami Peter Taylor Plato Ploughshares POETRY provinces of night REALITY St. Augustine Steinbeck Suttree The Unbearable Lightness of Being Tropic of Cancer Updike William Gay WRITING
"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."