Security

To a thief, the chain would only be a minor inconvenience, easily stepped over or around, hung between its two wooden poles, alone in the great wide open. Nonetheless, he liked having it stretched across the drive. Especially in the day. Though he could easily be seen from the road, working in the yard or in his shop, it was as if drawing the chain closed a great door behind him, walled the whole of his property even, narrowing the thirty-two acres down to that quiet attic space he so liked to write in. He was home, but not, hidden, and could immerse himself in his work without fear of having even to wave at passersby, looking up only to ponder, or glance fondly at that bit of silver thread, spun between those two spindly poles, securing all that he held most dear. 

    

On Becoming a Lap Cat

Unaccustomed to being loved directly, Baker looked up at the boy suspiciously. Being a cat in a dog-loving house, he was used to getting his affection second-hand, a stray elbow perhaps, brushing his flank as the dog’s belly was being vigorously scratched. Baker had never been lifted into the boy’s lap before, let alone petted, with both hands no less, and narrowed his eyes to better see what trick was about to be played upon him. He was prepared to leap in an instant.

          

          But nothing happened. Only more petting. And now his ears were being rubbed, just the way he had always dreamed. How could it be? All of this affection and with the dog nowhere to be found? It was truly beyond a neglected cat’s comprehension. But it was happening. And when the boy dug his fingers deeper into his winter fur, Baker couldn’t help but let his guard down just a little and arch his back ever so slightly in contentment. He found himself purring. Purring, and  helplessly kneading the boy’s lap, making the bread for which he had been so rightly named.    

           

On Driving by Something Mysterious

The walker walked with the confidence of a man who knows much and has little to show for it. He wore a heavy black leather jacket, shoulder length hair and a thick beard. Thinness showed in the seat of his jeans and from his left back pocket there hung a red bandanna.

     

     At first glance, Steven figured the walker was probably some mechanic, or machinist, or welder, who, in better or even warmer times, drove a motorcycle to work. The bandanna made sense.

     But as he passed, Steven began to think the bandanna seemed a little too clean, too intentional, flaunted almost. That perhaps it might be part of some secret language: a code meant to notify other bikers that the walker had fallen on to hard times and was in need of a lift.

     He briefly considered turning back; asking. But then again, the bandanna could signify the walker’s status in some murderous gang, or that he was a prostitute of some sort, open for business. God, there was so little he knew and so much he feared to ask.