I drift off in the quiet of the park where the rustling leaves keep me company.
I smell the meat on the burning wood of a fire pit.
I used to be hungry, now I just curl up in sleep.
Sounds of car tires spin on asphalt, peddling boys on bicycles churn their spindly legs,
traffic lights change from green to yellow to red for all eternity, long after I’m gone.
There’s a coo from a pigeon, a squawk from an agitated crow.
In the distance, I see a turkey vulture tearing up a defenseless squirrel.
I feel the loss of all the people I know.
The cycle continues with or without them, I guess.
The mushrooming gray clouds in the dusk hover over me like a warm quilted blanket
and at this moment, I feel safe.
This patch of grass is where I sleep.
Also appears in Virtual Library.
When I was a selfish little runt,
it was all about me.
It didn’t matter who I insulted,
what person I bothered.
Because I denied the fact
that I could make people cry.
I denied that I could do
an innocent person harm.
Now looking back,
those hurtful memories
return to me
like a smack in the face,
a boot in the ass.
It is my turn to feel the pain
from a selfish little runt
whose words burn in time.
When Miles arrived at work, the office staff greeted him with funny looks, some were either giggling or bent over in laughter. He checked the fly of his pants, rubbed his mouth thinking that a part of the donut was stuck to his beard.
Excerpt from Imported from Spain on Friday Flash Fiction (Longer Stories).
I was an innocent baby, but I wasn’t very cute.
A slightly different version published inVirtual Library.
I walk down the street
looking at my reflection
in each car window.
I see a wrinkled face,
a bent-over body
and wonder if that’s
It was just a few short years ago
I walked on the same block,
looked in similar car windows
and saw a young girl in shorts
with long flowing hair
and a bounce in her gait.
“Hold me,” Karima demanded, no longer feeling like an alienated exchange student missing her country, but a self-assured young woman who was free of all cultural restrictions and taboos.
Excerpt from Rain Like Water at Friday Flash Fiction ( Longer Stories).