Phoebe

The tall grass and brambles pull at Phoebe’s skirt; she walks on, oblivious. She’s often seen here walking through the field as the sky softens to dusk.

She hums, a secret song barely audible. It sounds like distant wind chimes, but there is no wind, not even the whisper of a breeze. The world holds its breath, save for some small animal that senses her approach and scuttles to a safer distance.

Phoebe’s feet pass over jagged stones set like teeth in the once fertile ground. They nip, greedy, at her soles. Still she pushes forward, heading toward the sumac thicket.

She slips through the branches and once on the other side heads due west. The sun fades and moon climbs as she crests a small rise. A weathered gray shack squats below, its door sagging on tired hinges. To open it would release a moan, but she's not interested. Instead she veers toward the jagged creek and the low stone fence below. And there she stops.

At her feet six small mossy stones, planted in a row, mark where she buried her babies. Each one dead at less than a year old.

She’d loved them singularly. Their chubby cheeks and pudgy feet. Their grasping, grabbing hands. And their lips. She’d gaze at them for hours as they slept, finally waking them to nurse at her breast. That was heaven. Knowing she alone could love them enough to keep them alive. That is, until the next one came, more perfect than the last. She didn’t have enough to give to two, so the elder would be wrapped in a blanket, tucked tenderly in the ground, and forgotten.

The seventh baby laid permanent claim to her. They died together in the small shack, tangled together in cord and placenta.

She returns each night, shocked anew to find plump and tender flesh replaced with seasoned bones that no longer reach for her, no longer warm her, no longer need her.

The Lake

Loon glides over slick
lily pads anchored in mud.
Dinner waits below.

Hurricane Promise

 Rain pelts the windows and the overhead lights flicker. Hurricane Promise makes her presence known.

I’d had this trip planned for two years. “Say hola to paradise.” That’s what the brochure had said. Sugar sand beaches, gentle waves, palm trees and sunshine. No computers. No work. No stress. Hah. I’d take the 8 to 5 grind over this any day.

The baggage carousel winds round and round, one lone suitcase repeating its jittery circuit, ignored, while we all crouch together on the floor as far from the windows as possible. This jumble of rumpled and unwashed humanity all silently prays to the god of their choice, begging to be delivered from disaster. Hopefully at least one of them has a direct line, because even though I don’t believe in god, I don’t want to die in this third world paradise either.

“It’s my birthday.” I say quietly, to myself. “I turned forty today.”

The body next to me gives me a gentle nudge.

“Would you like some gum?”

I smile and reach out, taking a piece from the calloused hand.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I pop it in my mouth and revel in the inimitable burst of spearmint freshness.

“Where are you from?”

“Wisconsin,” he says, smiling.

“Me too.”

“Small world. Mine name is Simon. Simon Nap. But my friends call me Snap.”

“Nice to meet you Snap. I’m Valerie.”

“Well Valerie, I’m going to buy you a birthday drink once this storm blows over.”

I smile and the lights go out.

Natural Order

By Susan Reetz .

 

It was treacherous work. Each time Sarah put her hand forward she had to pay close attention to the proximity of small fuzzy bodies. But she persisted. She couldn't remember another fall like this, with bees as plentiful as the fat raspberries weighing down the canes. Maybe it was a sign that natural order was righting itself.

 

Sarah shuffled to her left, mindful of the dip in the ground where she had dug earlier this summer. Mary Jo had begged her for some raspberry plants. Said this year Sarah's spring berries tasted better than any others she had ever tasted. It must the fertilizer she put on late last fall. Normally she didn't do anything special with the berries, but she thought it would be a good experiment. It must have worked because her early crop had been amazing, and the fall batch was shaping up to be the best yet.

 

Growing her own food had always been one of her real passions. Salad greens, peas, carrots, potatos, squash, cucumbers, herbs, onions, corn, melons and more. For a while she had even had her own chickens. She missed the eggs, but not the shrieks when the fox got into the henhouse. Or the sound of snapping necks at butchering time. That had always been Bob's job, and once he left, she just didn't have the heart for it. She gave her hens to the family down the road, tore down the coop and closed that chapter of her life.

 

A bumblebee hovered lazily near her ear, its low drone bringing her back to the task at hand. It was somewhat unnerving to be surrounded by so many of the industrious little creatures, but so far they had been able to peacefully coexist. She tipped a cane forward so she could clearly see the fruit she aimed to pick.

 

Bob had liked to examine the fruit he would pick too. There would be times when they'd go for a walk in the park and something of interest would catch his eye. Something wild and weedy, neglected but with an underlying appeal apparent to only his senses. She hadn’t understood his fascination back then.

 

Sarah's bowl was almost full. Succulent drops of fruit still hung from the canes, but she was suddenly tired. As she stood debating whether or not to continue picking, a large bee landed on her hand. The tickle of its feet stayed with her after it realized that she had no pollen and flew away.

 

Bob was the last person to touch her hand.

 

She was in her garden cutting down the last of the corn stalks in the dimming October light when she'd heard it. The shrieking, reverberating with terror and pain. She grabbed her shovel and ran to the coop. This would be the fox's last foray.

 

The chickens scattered before her, a hysterical swirl of feathers and dirt. The light evaporated as she stepped inside the coop. She heard rapid breathing to her right. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw a small figure crouched on the floor. Small, but much too big to be a fox. She stepped forward and it whimpered, weak.

 

Bob stepped out of the shadows buttoning his pants. The child remained unmoving, now making no sound at all.

 

"He followed me home. He wanted to see the chickens."

 

Bob turned to gesture to the child. That's when she swung. She caught him on the side of the head, snapping his neck. He reached for her as he fell, his fingertips just grazing her hand.

 

Sarah went to the child. He couldn’t have been on more than four and looked so peaceful. She closed the lids over his empty brown eyes and he looked like he was sleeping. Just sleeping.

 

That night Sarah tilled her garden under with only the moon as her witness. In the spring she’d let the raspberry canes spread and cover a larger portion of the garden. Their thorns would keep the local dogs away.

 

The next day Sarah drove her chickens down the road. No, she wouldn't take any money for them. She was just glad someone could take them.

 

No one came looking for the lost child who she secretly talked to and nicknamed Buzz. Maybe that's why the bees were so plentiful. Maybe they talked to him too.