The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

Illusions

Barbara fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Untucked, disheveled, fraying at the edges, the shirt reflected Barbara's state of mind.

"You need to make a decision, dear."

Barbara stared at her mother, so neat and handsome. In some ways, the woman was a complete stranger. Inheriting someone's genetic code, what did that really matter? Proximity and shared experience did not imply intimacy. Barbara felt so alone.

"We'll just let you stay here a while longer. I'm glad that's settled."

Barbara smiled as her mother departed. She knew she'd never be allowed any freedom, not while her mother yet lives.