Patrick T. Kilgallon
It's the tale that tells, not they who tell it.
He said to himself, woulda, shoulda, coulda, oughta. He used a can opener to open the Campbell’s tomato soup and inched his fingernail under the metal slit to pry it open. He was in Marjorie’s apartment, “just making lunch, huh?” spoken to the empty kitchen, the coffee gurgling in his throat.
Moonlight Writ In Water
The shore lay quiet until the night of October 31st. The last of the tourists had left for the winter. The locals, the little stores' owners, and the vendors, all either agitated, wan, or surly, gathered at the boardwalk. About a hundred. Endless waves murmured must make more money in monotonous splashes on the dark parts of the beach. An undergraduate student who majored in economics mentioned that it reminded him of the linear graph.
The Drones of Ear Drums
His instructor back at Fort Meade had encouraged Colonel Jacob Moss, U.S.A., Retired to compress his memories of things learned. To leave out excruciating details of his new life as his mother laid dying in the master bedroom of his homestead in Missouri. After all, time is relative and so is just the memory of that time. It was like the Yiddish language course he took at night school to get his BA degree (Georgetown University, class of O’ 81, a retro whoopie for him!) and currently for American Sign Language online to enable him to talk to the Poole family. He must not only work neatly but think neatly. For now, he must compartmentalize and compress his knowledge of Yiddish to make room for A.S.L.
They checked in at the rental office in the main cabin. Once inside, they saw one couple checking in before them. The woman's boonies hat tilted toward the older man. She looked fit in her white halter top, and a sarong wrapped around her hips over her bathing suit. Her toes, encased in sandals, flexed on the cherry wood floor. The older gentleman wore a black T-shirt, camouflage cargo shorts, and leather shoes with white ankle socks was with her. Both carried bright fishing gears. The spinners weighed down the net webbings on the man’s pants. They both boarded the Perpetual, a flatboat with an engine powered by water jets from the lake itself. It peeled away with a quiet roar, the gentleman bent over the steering handle as if he was a fighter jet pilot.