You Are The Method

I met the man with the train face at a strawberry picking. Where you buy the basket, scatter into the field, pick as many as you like or as will fit. He moved in a straight line, boring ever farther ahead, picking with one hand, then the other, then engineering the basket forward along the ground. When I was beside him, I could feel his breath like steam; his eyes seemed to let out more light than they took in. Full basket, he passed it to his wife. Her face was a station. She handed him a new, empty basket.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

A New Home

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“Hi, we’re the new foster parents. Are the little ones ready?”

The woman who opened the door has tears in her eyes.

“You’re early.”

“We were anxious to see them.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

“Um… certainly, madam.”

“I’ll get my husband.”

A man comes to the door, carrying a basket and then handing it over.

“Is everything all right with the missus? She seems a bit upset. She IS aware we will end up eating them, right?”

“Sssst. No need to remind her of that.”

“Maybe you should consider to stop giving away free tomato plants, then.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Wife's Helper

John flipped his wife’s shopping list and reached for the phone in his jacket. No charge.

He caught a nearby shopper.

“Excuse me, what are these,” he pointed to the list.

“Try the seafood counter,” was the reply.

Once there, John asked, “Do you have scal...?”

“Scallops?” the server interjected. “Half a pound? They’re pricey.”

John placed the package into his basket. “Where do I find this,” he showed the same man.

“Rubber scrapers in kitchen gadgets.”

“Thank you.”

When John arrived home, his wife unpacked the bags.

“I’m allergic to shellfish!” she shrilled. “Where are the scallionsand capers?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

The Illusion Of Choice

I was given a simple choice. Pick one basket. Whatever was hidden inside would be my destiny.

There were 100 baskets to choose from. I knew from the stories that most of them were dull affairs, with fates that would play out over the next 50-70 years. A few were glorious. One or two held nearly instant death.

I thought having such a choice was wonderful. It wasn't until later I realized the feeling of control was an illusion, for though I could chose the basket, I had never been asked if I wanted to play the game to begin with.