Fake Spring

You'd think it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was filled with puffy clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm, perfect for short sleeves. The air had just a hint of pollen, so that anyone with allergies needed to worry. Colorful buds were starting to pop, and every creature, from squirrels to songbirds to rabbits, believed winter was no more.

I would have smiled if I could. Heavy storms were just over the horizon. Thunder, frosty winds, perhaps even a burst of snow.

George would need to hurry if we wanted to bury my corpse before the soil froze over.

One Last Sunrise

Carl awoke to the escalating chorus of songbirds echoing through the dense northeastern forest. He arose and went through his morning ritual in silence. Dress and redon boots. Rehydrate and consume breakfast, coffee. Breakdown camp. Load his backpack.

These same activities he had performed for countless summers, now at a slower more deliberate pace.

The sealed cardboard box was left out of his pack today. He would carry it the last few miles in his hands.

Arriving at their unnamed peak, he savored the sunrise view east. Opening the box, he sprinkled her remains. Finally, at peace. Finally, at home.

From Guest Contributor Todd Raubenolt

The Field

They wanted to build condominiums there, but when the construction crew arrived, Rufus scared them away.

A cluster of songbirds burst from the long grass every time Rufus barked. The neighborhood knew that he commanded the abandoned field, not the city council, not the eager developers. The pitbull had fought off Animal Control and the Humane Society enough times to have earned his dominion in perpetuity.

Rufus wasn't a stray. He belonged to the field, ever since his former owner passed and left him to fend for himself.

Rufus would die before he allowed anyone to take away his field.