Dreams

"What'd you expect? I am who I am."

With a scowl she looked down at him sprawled across the weathered porch, a cigar box guitar across his lap. He knew to say more now would elicit a sharp slap across his perspiring jaw.

"You got chores, Bo. Get off your butt and get out in that field."

Slowly he rose, put the instrument down gingerly, and peered at the rich delta loam between his toes. He reached for a gunny sack and turned toward endless rows of cotton shimmering in the heat.

I'm gonna be somebody, he thought. I am.

From Guest Contributor Fred Miller

Fred is a California writer. Over fifty of his stories and poems have appeared in publications around the world in the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog.