Expectations in the Dark – The Last Good Thing (update)


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She had always expected grandchildren.  She had expected, even as a young girl, to live deep into her twilight surrounded by chittering, smiling faces.  Even before she had thought of having children or even knew what that meant, she had expected grandchildren.  She had expected full tables at thanksgiving and long lists of names at Christmas.

She could always see it so vividly.

Sitting next to a man who would have looked remarkably like a potato that lay in the cupboard too long whose skin had gone loose as the inside had lessened with time.  She would have borne the years with more grace and would have had tight skin that shone like a mirror as it stretched across her forehead.  She had expected to buy him little sweaters that he would have worn as he sat in front of a typewriter, or sat in his favorite chair reading the paper or a book that he loved.  The sweaters would have always been soft against her face when he hugged her unexpectedly in the middle of a frigid morning. Continue reading

Morsel – An, as-of-yet, unfinished continuation of “A Place to Rest Your Head”


0000002811Down the wheezing stairs–to the right, the moth-eaten sack hangs on a hook.  Every night I crowd into the moldy burlap and hug my knees until my stomach aches me to sleep.”

       – Morsel           

            There is house in central Vermont at the apex of a cul-de-sac.  The address is 385 Champlain Circle.  There are no other houses in that particular cul-de-sac.  There are no other houses in that particular community.  There are piles of decaying wood and plaster in each lot of that community, but they have all but turned into hillocks dotting a long abandoned landscape.  In the basement of 385 Champlain Circle there is a staircase.  At the bottom of the staircase, just to the right, there is a burlap sack hanging on a rusty hook.  It is slightly green from mold, and if you were to see it at night, it would look quite full.  This is where Morsel sleeps. Continue reading

The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.


Dust flew in wisps around his feet as he stood at the edge of the rocky peak.  He stared down into the deep valley below the mountain, fury gripping him in tight bonds.  The smooth features of his face were taut, frozen in a grim snarl.

“Not now.  Not here!”  He focused on the small figures far below.  They scurried like ants around a small, newly forming building with a symbol perched on its sharply peaked roof.  A symbol he recognized.  A symbol he did not want to believe was in his village.   Continue reading