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These are two of the 100-word stories I've been writing lately.
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The little Lady and I drove down to New Orleans to take in the Mardi Gras festivities we’d read so much about.
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then from the page
this body stands
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It is a day of swallows and grasshoppers, of white clouds and suntanned arms. In the yellow field wheat ears burn, lit by fantasies. One of wheat, one of rye. Summer love, holiday love is in the air. Under the thickness of the harvest, their roots search, call each other.…
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Is this the “...be or not...” crux of my “busy being born” v. “busy dying” dilemma?
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