I See

I paint you by numbers, capture your features one by one… from the fair Irish skin; to the coal-black hair; to the rich, ruby lips; and the fiery-, emerald-green eyes.

I reach for the palette of paint and thrust my brush like a mop into a bucket and swish it around. The color washes your face with only shades of grey. The numbers on the canvas do not add up. I am left only with a monotone portrait of shadow and sadness.

Betrayed, my grip clenches. I see, I know your colors. I see, I know your lack of them.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

Irish Ned

Farming is messy! Locals cling to the old ways; Tractors and pranks pass the wet summers. Old greying Ned couldn't drive. Two young bored farmhands picked fun.

'Label the pedals,' Ned instructed. Laughing, the word 'brake' was put on the clutch and 'clutch' on the brake. After a struggle Ned called brusquely,'I'm going on the beer.' His men kindly laced the ale with castor oil. Walking like a duck Ned struggled to the gate and wasn't seen for two days.

In the field the wife cried, 'What did you do to my Neddy? The sofa and bed are ruined!'

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly