A woman in the kitchen in a stained bathrobe singing, her voice raspy as blowing leaves, singing, her voice dry but the song sloshing, filling the illuminated room. Because there were no muggers in the parking lot last night, because she called in sick and they believed her. Because the sun's shining on a chipped wineglass in the dish drainer making it sparkle. Because a man with beige hair and a white goatee loves her and she loves him. Slicing the hot hardboiled eggs on the buttery toast wet with delicious grease, the steam smells like the dirt the hen scratched in. Grateful to be about to eat a life: no cancer, pregnancy, broken heart. Looking out the window watching three small brown birds, the undulate and glint of the telephone lines, her hands translucent in the sunlight holding the rusted knife, the day about to happen, singing.
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Readers’ Comments
- Laurel Wexman { I am re- reading this for the millionth time, through tears, once again. It is absolutely perfect! }
- Antonie Becker { Beautifully movingly written so, Thank God, the talent and ability is still somehow, miraculously, intact. }
- Jim Brennan { Garry, you mentioned this piece at the PVTU meeting - nicely written. It had me searching around, as things like this tend to do, for... }
- Dan Minnock { Hello All, Are you taking submissions for the June 2022 contest? }
- D. Oakleaf { Dear James, Thank you for sharing this outstanding essay. My father also built a "Z-Box" and I've recently taken up learning its backstory, even if... }
- F. J. Bergmann { We're near the end of 2021. When will the 2020 Fiction Contest results be announced? }
- Dawn Holmes { Blimey - what a read........we just celebrated a UK and anyone else who could make it - Cusichaca reunion at our home in Scotland -... }
- Literal Latte { Thanks, Richard, that is much appreciated! You stay safe, too! }
- Literal Latte { Hi James and Michelle (and other writers who have inquired) -- We're truly sorry about the delay. It looks like results for the fiction contest... }