Excerpts, etc.

September 12, 2016

     Cora read the story, for most of the afternoon and into the evening.

     Her bedroom window was dark when she finished. The book’s front was lettered, ‘A Song for Chloe’, and it was warm between her hands. The cover was a diffused swirl of pink and blue, gold, lavender and peach, and it shone like the inside of a seashell. She lay on top of her bedspread and looked at it for a long time.  

  The silhouette of a man with a saxophone was in the middle of all the color; he was so sm...

August 24, 2016

Hollywood, California 

Saturday, March 30, 1963:

     The restaurant stood at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and La Brea Avenue, and it all started on the front steps. Everything else happened because Aundrew Glass was left behind there on the impossibly blue morning of his eleventh birthday.

     He stood and watched his father’s car. It was a half-block away and moving in the other direction, and then it turned the corner and was gone. It was a red-and-white Plymouth Belvedere, and there was no doubt abo...

July 22, 2016

 “Cumin, Turmeric, Cayenne, Blueberry,” she whispered. “A dash of each, and all together.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

 “Somewhere warm,” she said. “A place where beasts are mild.”

  I could see it, the faraway, in her dark eyes.    

      There was a flower, just one. It grew in a small patch of sun on the forest floor, a tiny splash of pink in last year’s dead leaves, quietly soaking up the last of the spring evening and radiating it back.

     “This is how it all begins, you know,”...

July 22, 2016

   

Later that evening was the first time that I met my next-door neighbor, Annie Kahlo. My first thought was that she must be some kind of a ghost. I don’t know why that idea jumped out at me. Maybe it was because of the way she moved, hardly seeming to touch the ground.  In hindsight, it must have taken a lot of courage to cross the grass that separated my front steps from hers.

     I had one hand on my front door knob, ready to go out to nowhere in particular. It was the kind of warm twilight that ma...

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© 2016 by Bob Bickford