Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline. There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count. So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings. ——— The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started? Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.” “I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.” “They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal. “But there are still soldiers ove
Cecilia was standing in front of Aunt Betty’s coffin when it happened. Calvin squirmed out of her arms and, yelling a stream of semi-gibberish, launched himself into the casket. It took a moment before she spotted the tiny sandal lodged between Aunt Betty’s left shoe and a wooden box. Calvin hated being barefoot. Before she could reach for it, Bryson took her by the elbow and steered her away. Calvin toddled behind, still crying. They proceeded out of the church into the dry heat of the parking lot, not a strip of grass to be seen. “Why do they never put lawns in these places?” Cecilia scooped up Calvin. He stopped sniveling and handed her a square of card stock. On it was typed “Hab 2:9.” “They need the parking,” Bryson shaded his eyes, “On Sundays, this place overflows. You’re lucky to find a spot, and that’s with running two services.” “Then you must know what this means,” Cecilia held up the card. Bryson took the card, then crumpled it in his fist, “There is no book of Ha