From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Journey to the Edge” Suited up, helmets on, inside the spacecraft Wilson and Clark climbed into their seats. Switches, dials, and levers filled every inch of the surrounding control panels. Gauges and monitors glowed in green and amber, a soft visual buffer to the darkness outside. Wilson glanced at the small mirror he’d glued—against regulations—to the console. No sandy brown hair and gray-blue eyes looking back, just the white sphere of his helmet and the face shield that looked like the giant eye of a bug. A bug in outer space. Just…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “The Wonder of Og” Og traced his fingers across the images of sun and moon he had scratched on his cave wall. His father had taught him to bow down to the sun each morning and the moon each night. They ruled the sky, and every day and night they crossed from one end to the other. Bowing to them made sense, even if they sometimes hid behind the white fields that floated in the sky. Yet Og could not stop wondering if there might be something beyond the sun and…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Bronze Man” In late afternoon I met a woman in a park. She sat in a circle of elementary school kids, doing crafts with Popsicle sticks and telling stories about what’s important in life. I paused to watch, and she called me over to help. She said I looked as if I needed to join in as much as the kids. Not sure how or why to say no, I sat down with them. I listened and helped. I asked her why she did this, and she said, “It’s an expression of…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Anna’s Treasures” Seattle 1954 Anna Petrovna died in springtime. She had always wanted to die in winter because that’s when everything slept. Death was natural, and properly done, in winter. But the cancer metastasized like a trespasser over the borders of her wishes and took her three seasons early. This upset her. Sergei clutched her diary as he gazed at the old lithographic photo in the gray light that filtered through the rain-streaked window. By the date on the back, she would have been in her forties, and every inch of her…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Turning Point” Sophie cringed at the smell of medicine and reached into her Louis Vuitton purse for her Eau de Cartier. She sprayed a bit on her neck and wrists then hesitated in the doorway. A curtain shielded the bed. The lights were off, and the TV loomed silently. She gripped her purse handles tightly with her right hand, mindful of the bandage around the scrapes on her swollen left hand. Her nail polish remained remarkably intact. Deep breath. What would she say? If he were asleep, she could…