The Ripeness of Fruit
By Kenneth Weene
Badria wakes. The sun is not yet up. The cock has not yet called. Perhaps it was the hoot of loons, the stirring of goats in the barn, the restless wandering of the wind among the budding cherry trees
“Does the wind taste the tart ripeness of the fruit?” she wonders.
Uncle in Vermont
by Kenneth Weene
She loved traveling, delighting in hotels and particularly enjoying room service breakfasts: scrambled eggs not too firm or a cheddar omelet, a side of bacon, toast buttered and strawberry jam, hash browns with ketchup, and coffee—light and sweet. Uncle, our twelve-pound terrier-poodle mix, had little use for me, but she did appreciate my serving her hotel breakfast.
Alpha - Omega An Irreverence
by Kenneth Weene
“Worthless!” The trumpeting blast of Jehovah’s voice set the bowls of manna jumping. Waves of mead swished from goblets. Two unsuspecting seraphim were knocked from their precarious perches atop great golden harps. In the aftermath, quiet reigned in the massive hall. Every saintly and angelic eye was turned towards the All Mighty.
The youngster takes his stand. He leans back against the double birch. The bushes he has pushed aside close back around him. Even though it is still night, he can feel the sun rising ahead.
Eating Fried Chicken in Eureka
I've been spending a few weeks in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. That's in the northwest corner of the state, where the Ozarks meet WalMart. I'm at the Writers' Colony, a place where authors can go to just write, to just have the freedom to create. Of course, nobody can create twenty-four seven, especially when they like to eat out as much as I. The area is a veritable nirvana of fried chicken and barbeque. There's also some great Italian and wondrous cobbler. Let's put it this way: the food in Eureka is so good that I can even forgive the occasional use of Velveta.
Apple Pies and Elephants
It was August, just before we heard that the last elephants had died. Suze got it into her head we should ride out to the old Viles farm and pick apples, fresh tree grown apples, for some pies.
No Viles has lived on the place for nearly a hundred years, but it’s still named for them, at least by popular consent. The Yadda-Yadda-Yadda name that designates it an historic site, the one you’d find if you were a tourist doing a VIZ-trip, nobody bothers with that dumb name here.
The Purdys were the last to actually farm there. They quit when there was no place left where could they sell apples, corn, tomatoes, or string beans. The markets were gone; government food – tasteless and chemical though it is – is delivered free so no need for stores or even roadside stands, especially with cars banned and busses rare.
The boy perched on the cement bench, squinted with the fantasy of warfare, and cautiously watched. The enemy was close. The responsibility great. The danger imminent.
Carefully he checked his weapon. His gun was loaded, but it’s range limited; Bender knew that he would have to wait for the opportune moment, dash forward, and fire before his neighbor, Mr. Cachlow, could react. Surprise was imperative. But speed was clearly the boy’s advantage; his new silver Razor scooter was ready
“What a pain in the ass.” Trudy put her iPhone back into her pocketbook.
It wasn’t much of an expletive or very loud, but coming from the lips of my wife it was enough to make me look up from my snack, a piece of Trudy’s latest chocolate-pecan pie, and ask, “What is, Dear?”
“Not what, who. It’s Iris…Again…now she wants me to make her some chicken soup.”
“She asked you to make her chicken soup? I know she hasn’t been feeling—“
“No, she asked me how to make chicken soup; but if I know Iris, she’s hoping I’ll make it for her.”
“Does that woman think you’re her mother?” I asked as I slipped my plate into the sink and splashed it with water.
“That girl certainly needs a mother, but I’m not applying for the job.”
“So what are you going to do?” I asked.
I was heading into my study with my teacup still in hand. I do love to sip my tea, and the latest batch of Earl Grey was particularly good. I had send to San Francisco for a half pound only that month and had already made a significant dent in the tin.
I know not the substance you once held:
food or drink, poison, balm.
For the farmer or his wife,
whose work you did I can not tell.
The potter’s hands that gave you birth
have long ago returned to earth;
and you upon this antiques’ shelf
have wiled years and gathered dust.
I make you mine to hold the past.
I’ll give to you some humble task:
hold copper coins or paper clips
and feel you have purpose yet –
to fill your womb with any what
that I, your newest owner, wants.