Sunday Morning

Staying home sick from Church is the real blessing. The entire comics section all to myself. Mom leaves me hot chocolate with the hard marshmallows dissolving into pure sugar.

Sinking into the beanbag. Feet buried in the shag of the carpet, working knots with my toes. Sips of too hot chocolate that burn my tongue with sweetness

Calvin and Hobbes. Peanuts. The Far Side.

It's a perfect Sunday morning.

I don't hear my older brother come home early. Before I know it, he has me buried under the beanbag, smothering me so I can't breathe.

I hate my older brother.

The Whimsical Sun

It always rained where I lived, and the sun never showed its face. January to December: an encore of relentless grey days.

Sometimes during the summer break, when the gray became unbearable, my mother allowed me a night’s stay at my best friend's house next door.

There at her place, we would play late into the night and there was always an abundance of hot chocolate and stories to go around. Late mornings, while we were still in bed, her father used to roll up the clacking blinds, and tiny motes of dust danced in the sun, just like magic.

From Guest Contributor E. Rhyme