White Ford Bronco, by James Blevins

We ran to our fort in the woods that was little more than a rut in the ground. Our imaginations made it something more, though, and it suited us fine.

My baby brother in the pine needles. He spoke to me, but I hadn’t heard, distracted by birds.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I hope he never comes back.”

I imagined I could hear a bird expanding its ribcage in song. I took my brother’s hand while he wept.

We ran home.

Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.

Thankful, we ran some more. Our chests extended, vibrating, in perfect harmony.

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Let Nature Take its Course, by Charles Boorman

Mother hedgehog was heading home to her babies. Reaching the grassy verge of the busy road, she suddenly felt a sharp pain. She struggled there for hours, strength fading, until the dog discovered her. The little girl, his owner, begged the people at the nearby Nature Conservancy Center for help, but to her dismay they just said, “There’s nothing we can do; let nature take its course.”

Next day the little girl returned to the tragic scene, where the spiny cadaver lay at the bottom of the hedge, one of its hind legs still snagged on the barbed wire fence.

A New Friend, by Russell Conover

(Originally published to LinkedIn)

Kindergartner Timmy jumped when he felt something tickle his feet. Looking down, he widened his eyes as he saw a small, furry creature smiling at him. Timmy grinned back. A new friend! How exciting!

Timmy and Furry explored the yard, laughing and having fun. Best of all, no one but Timmy seemed to be able to view Furry. The gears in Timmy’s head grinded as he imagined all they could do together.

Then Timmy woke up. Only a dream? NOOOO! His lip quivered, when he felt another tickle. Pinching himself, he laid eyes on Furry–for real. Life was good!

D.C. Lives Beyond Trump’s Fictional Swamp, by Maria DePaul

Donald Trump loves to call Washington “a swamp,” but that land never existed outside of political fiction.

Another city exists beyond Official Washington. For natives, the city limits are set by two rivers: the Anacostia and the Potomac. The terrain consists of hills, parks and forestland. The city even has a wealth of urban gardens and some urban farms.

Rock Creek park holds the zoo, a nature center, stables and trails. East Potomac Park is where locals go to play. Every neighborhood has its own history.

Ultimately, Washington is a series of schools, churches and households where ordinary people live.

Dinner With The Hendersons, by Gordon Lawrie

We’d been anticipating the Hendersons’ dinner party for days.

“You’ll get the chance to enjoy your neighbours, the Walkers,” said Mary Henderson. We looked forward to meeting people from our quiet cul-de-sac.

That evening, Dan ushered us in. “Come! The Walkers are in the dining room.”

We’d expected two others, but Jane and I were the only guests. Our meal was heavily meat-based – a terrine, then a tasty pie. Eventually I said, “I’d understood our neighbours would be here?”

“They were,” Dan said. “On the table. The Davidsons are coming tomorrow.”

Jane and I shivered. We heard the lock turn.

(Untitled), by Amy Friedman

Happy Friday! A 100-word tale in the wake of Hefner’s death.

(Untitled), by Amy Friedman

(LinkedIn story, originally posted Friday 9/29/17)

When I was in my 20s, a fellow took me to the Playboy Club in New York City for our first date. Who does that? Talk about clueless! No, I never went out with him again. The second? I was dating a truly awful fellow – so awful my mother nicknamed him The Vermin. He cheated on me with a Playboy Bunny. She left her outfit at his house. Did I try it on? Of course! How could I miss such a cultural opportunity? Those outfits were truly awful – they could practically stand up by themselves, they were so boned.

Listening to Our Parents Watch Movies, by James Blevins

My brother and I would meet sometimes at night on the floor of the hallway between our bedrooms—out of sight.

Once, we fell asleep that way. Mom found us, of course.

She roused us with the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen. We were soon eating breakfast with her at the dining room table. The sound of forks scraping plates. The low-hanging smell of freshly-sizzled bacon.

A memory I can still shape.

She never once asked us why we were lying in the hallway like that, and we never once brought it up.

Now, I think she knew.