Rubber

I would have rather walked. Despite the early spring chill, I longed for a refreshing hike.

I parked, feeling the tires’ dread an inch from a small grit burn. They needn’t have gone through this existential horror except that I had so many quarters to rid myself of. 

Standing at the roadside, the long–necked animal swallowed my change. It ate eagerly, one by one, and in turn showed all that I was an honest person with no proclivity for petty crime. 

I waited for the meter to down the last coin with a metallic gulp. After it squawked happily, I climbed back behind the wheel and drove home so I could take the walk I desired instead.

These Mutts are Near

No dogs on the bridge.
No bikes either,
for that matter. 
But definitely no dogs
without leashes. 
That’s how they get you:
you say, 
dogs without leashes,
we can cross that bridge
when we get there.
All of a sudden,
you can’t cross with the dog,
so, you ditch the leash
and boom,
you’ve violated the sacred
oath.
No dogs without leashes. 

The Stylist’s Curse

Foreword: Though the elements of horror fiction commonly make their way into my writing, it is oddly one of my least common reading choices. The bulk of which, when I do partake, is centered on a psychological component. In appreciation, few other subjects offer a laboratory as free for exploration. I felt, in holiday spirit, what’s the harm? Hope you enjoy.