Posted at 4:37 am , on April 18, 2019
The foursome were enjoying their sundowner cocktails and pupus in the cockpit when John suddenly jumped up.
“We’ve got company.” Everyone turned towards the pretty boat entering the narrow passageway between the reefs into the secluded cove.
“It’s almost dark. We better help them get moored. C’mon, Tom, you drive.”
Tom maneuvered the dinghy carefully around the reef, approaching the boat as John hailed, “Ahoy there! We’re here to give you a hand. It’s a tricky reef.”
Posted at 6:41 am , on April 10, 2019
Dawn arrives with a familiar ache.
One year, a decade, a lifetime
It never changes
You are missed so much.
You have missed so much.
Birthdays and graduations
Weddings and babies
Kids, grands, great-grands
I feel you still.
Whispers in the wind
Light playing on wave crests
The sway of my own boat.
Sail on, Sailor.
I’ll walk the beach
You’ll fade away
Until next year.
Footprints in the sand.
John Benson, May 9, 1942 – April 10, 1982
- John Benson (in orange jacket) sailing Belfast Lady on Opening Day on the Bay, circa late-1970s.
Written for the To Live and Write in Alameda 2019 “Flash Lit February” Challenge 6. We had three days to write a poem or short story (of 500 words or less) or draw a piece of art to the theme “Footprints in the Sand” and submit.
Posted at 3:25 am , on April 4, 2019
“Amy! Dinnertime! C’mon home!”
“Coming, Mom!” Amy yelled from the dense bushes in the park’s far corner.
“Gotta go. See you tomorrow. We’re having lasagna. I’ll bring you some in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Tommy answered. “But thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Amy tossed in bed that night, worried about Tommy all alone in the corner park across the street. No one but she knew he was there. Four days ago he ran away from the foster family he’d been living with for the past year and no one had reported him missing. It was summer so the school wasn’t aware, and other than Amy he didn’t have any friends. He was quiet and kept to himself, learning at an early age that it was the best way to survive the foster system.
Posted at 4:21 am , on March 21, 2019
She didn’t know how she was going to decide. The relationships had started due to her best friend’s push to get her on a dating website.
“C’mon, Becca. You’ve been divorced over a year. Let me create an OkCupid profile for you. That’s how I met Cliff and it turned out great for us,” Shelley begged, flashing her engagement ring once again.
Rebecca had cringed, tired of the constant attempts from her mother and friends to set her up. “Fine. Just tell the truth and don’t make me look stupid. And I swear, if I get catfished, I’ll kill you.”
Posted at 10:13 am , on March 17, 2019
My parents were both born in Belfast, Northern Ireland but St. Patrick’s day was never celebrated in our house. Why, you ask? Because we are proud Orange-Irish!
Growing up, my sister Jacqueline and I were NEVER allowed to wear green to school. We would try to sneak out the door and Daddy would turn us about saying, “No child of mine is wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day. Go and put on your orange.” No matter how we pleaded about getting pinched, Daddy was always true to his heritage. And I passed that on to my children and grandchildren.
And now, my annual explanation on why this 100% Irish, first generation American, wears Orange on St. Patrick’s Day.
Posted at 4:44 am , on March 7, 2019
The sour-faced woman raised her eyebrows after scanning my ID card. “I’m sorry, we can’t accept your vote.”
“What? Why not? I’ve voted at this polling place for the past 12 years. I’ve never missed an election. What’s wrong?”
“It seems that your citizenship is in question. We can’t just let anyone vote, you know.” She said this with a smirk and dismissive wave of her hand.
Posted at 2:52 am , on February 21, 2019
Amy stretched languidly, enjoying the morning quiet.
Then it struck her: It’s Wednesday! Why didn’t the alarm go off?!
She flew out of bed, glancing at the offensive clock: 8:13 am. Shit. No time for a shower or coffee and there was no way she’d make the express bus. Driving wasn’t an option either with the crowded highways at peak commute hour. She’d have to take the subway to get into the city. Ugh.
Posted at 2:50 am , on February 7, 2019
He considered himself immortal. He’d had plenty of broken bones and visits to the emergency room in his 33 years as a stuntman. In each of the three near-death experiences, he was drawn to a light but it always dimmed before he reached it. And then he woke to excruciating pain.
This was different. He found himself weightless. No sound, no sights, just white. Best of all, no pain. An unseen force slowly propelled him forward and after a time he came upon a huge golden gate.
A kind voice whispered in his head, “Enter ye who are pure of heart.”
Posted at 2:46 am , on January 24, 2019
“Fort Awsome,” the sign read. In all actuality, it wasn’t a “fort” and “awsome” was spelled wrong. Both were mortal sins in her book and she felt no remorse in ripping the shoddily made wooden plaque off the rickety beach shelter, placing it in the garbage bag she carried.
Virginia was a creature of habit. Every Sunday without fail she walked to the local coffee shop near the harbor and read the newspaper over a pot of black tea. Then she walked the two mile stretch of beach, picking up litter and washed-up trash with her gloved hands.
Posted at 7:59 am , on January 10, 2019
Charlie’s trained eyes peered through the binoculars from his vantage point at the top of the playground castle. He had a full view of the park and the turret shielded him from view of onlookers. He jotted notes in a little pad with a pencil, kept tucked in his suit pocket.
The man had approached the bench from the south, glancing furtively to his left and right several times before catching sight of the pretty young woman and quickening his pace when she looked up from her book with a smile.