Water Pitcher

The mustard-lustered staircase was slick with California rain. Loaded with bridal shower largesse, like some kind of Sierra-Sherpa goat, I lost my footing—and lost the water pitcher over the balustrade escarpment. The abysmal fracture at your feet flashed within your eyes; oh the silence, oh the rain. There must have been other gifts, but I remember this one only, and others: forgetting to set the alarm for the eclipse, going to the airport on the wrong day, and missing Sasha's graduation. The mind adheres to misadventure like a stubborn sticker on glass. Even the dishwasher of time can't dislodge.

From Guest Contributor David C. Miller

Sensitive Weather

It was the eve of the Little League finals. Bobby looked out his window and cursed the gathering storm clouds. He desperately wanted to pitch in tomorrow's championship.

The clouds, as all the wise men know, are temperamental. They especially don't take to being ordered about, by God or anyone else. Certainly not by thirteen-year-old boys.

When Bobby woke up the next morning, the clouds were no longer in the sky. They were stuffed into his bedroom. They chased him about for the rest of the week until he finally apologized.

"Next time, don't be so mean," the clouds insisted.