Watching Me

Her eyes flashed with mischief in the warm street light. Green, full of longing, on a young fall night. Her hand merged with mine and then her breath drew short--and I felt nothing.

In a moment I saw myself in the third person, a cold drifting observer. Helplessly I looked, unaware of my own consciousness, merely seeing--there she was, running her hand down his face, soft voice muffled as through wool. Her fingers brushed across his cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. Their lips moved together and apart, and the moment passed.

I had missed it.

From Guest Contributor Caleb Woodman

Caleb is an aspiring spiritual writer studying at Pikes Peak Community College.

Mr. Flanagan’s Lawn Gnomes

Mr. Flanagan's yard was famous for its lawn gnomes. Every child on the block knew the tiny mischief-makers loved to drag unwary passersby into the yard and subjugate them to all manners of horror.

Bobby O'Shea supposedly disappeared while picking crabapples straight from the branch. Seamus Kennedy refused to say how he got his broken foot, but Mr. O’Leary had forced him to deliver groceries to Flanagan’s front door the day before. The gnomes bullied away lunch money and tricked children out of their shoes.

In hindsight, using Flanagan’s hedge as our homerun fence was almost certainly a bad idea.