The Names of Things

Tall grasses dance and wave in the breeze.  From the trees, Peter hears birdsong that he cannot identify.  He regrets this.  Too busy with the day-to-day responsibilities of owning a newspaper, he forgot to learn the names of the things that surround him.  He will go to his grave with only a nodding acquaintance with the trees.  All the various types of clouds will be just clouds.  He doesn’t know what to call the weeds and the grasses and the insects.  And this thought saddens him.  It weighs heavily upon his mind and darkens the day. 

“What is that bird, do you think, Ellen?”

She scowls.  “Does it make a difference, Peter?”

The sun slants through the trees and, squinting furiously, he tries to determine the hour.  He gives up the endeavor easily enough and instead glances at the watch he wears upon his wrist.

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Walls of Ivory

 “It’s pretty up here.”  Caroline ran a finger along the inside wall of the ivory tower in which she stood.   She looked out the tiny window at the people on the sidewalk. 

“They look small down there, don’t they?”  Derrick sneered.  “Small and insignificant.”

“You would too, from sixty feet up.”  Caroline crossed the room and picked up a book from the stack on his desk.  “How did you come to be here, anyway?” 
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Moving On

This post was written in respone to an Indie Ink challenge from Jules: My challenge was Moving On.  I challenged Tara Roberts with The College Tour from Hell.

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We gather to celebrate ninety years.  Family members from coast to coast arrive, each bearing a contribution: sandwiches and fruit trays; potato chips and pretzels and pop; even fifty pounds of tomatoes from Marietta, Ohio.

This is my husband’s family.  There are people I haven’t seen in years; people I recognize but whose names I cannot remember. 

We hug one another, how are you-ing down the line of people, reintroducing our children.  We admire the new babies; everyone trying to forge some connection; to claim those children as their own: He reminds me so much of Grandpa.  She’s got her father’s hair.

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The Universe Isn't Evil...

This post was written as a part of the Indie Ink challenge.  I challenged Jason with "the bitterness of coffee and the subtlety of..."  Check out his blog here.  Stefan (here) challenged me with "the universe isn't evil, it's just indifferent."

This is a continuation of a piece of fiction I'm working on.

* * *

“What’s that boy a’ yours doin’, Daddy Sheriff?” 

I look out the windows. Ransom O’Neill tips back in his chair and scratches at his elbow. 

“Playing with his dollies, I ‘spect.” 

One of the men laughs, tickled with the image.  The five of them sit outside on folding lawn chairs, chewing and spitting directly into the vegetable garden that my mother had taken such pains to plant all those years ago. 

The first thing she done, when Daddy Sheriff brought her home as his wife, was surround the little parched plot of land with squat garden fencing; decorative more than anything, because, believe you me, a one foot fence ain’t gonna’ keep out the deer and the rabbits.  Now all the plants—the peas and the tomatoes; the green beans and the lettuces—are gone.  All gone; the short white fence corralling nothing.

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Wild Roses Along the Shoreline

I am an ornament upon their pristine lawn.  They gather in my honor.  Dutiful lips offer dry kisses.  They come bearing gifts: large boxes with colorful ribbons which they set at my bunioned feet.

A little boy in a cowboy hat is placed before me.   “Help Great-Grandma,” a woman says.

“I don’t want to.”  The boy frowns.  Perhaps he fears me.

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