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He wanders past the boarded-up businesses in town with a look of guilty surprise, as if he’d been tapped on the shoulder while spying on something he shouldn’t have seen, startled behind binoculars, and never bounced back from the shock. We’re sitting on a wooden bench in the creaky hallway of the county courthouse during a recess, on the dustiest afternoon of a country summer, my sister and I, trying not to touch each other while Dad is in the chambers renting a judge. He only needs him for an hour. Dust like gnats, gnats like yellowjackets, swirl through the sword blades of sunlight from the transom, that stab the floor beneath our feet. Our feet don’t reach, as I recall. It doesn’t stop people from thinking we’re all grown up. The bailiff, standing, leans against the wall and snores, hat down over his eyes. We could run, and hop a train to Mexico, and play at husband and wife. I scrape a sticky century of furniture wax and dirt from the seat of the bench between my thighs and draw initials in a heart down to the wood with my fingernail. I look at her and tilt my head to show her what I’ve done. She looks between my legs and claps her hand over her mouth. If we’re not careful. Dad may never convince the judge. He didn’t scrape together much. His Honor emerges first in a tattered vest. He stands in front of the bench and talks about me, uses my name, but only looks at her. I watch Dad come from the chambers, seeming stricken. He looks at us and sees my upside-down heart. I’m destined for some lonely time at the state correctional, I do believe. My sister gets a job at the courthouse.
Copyright © March 28, 2007
Read the rest of this entry »I had been seeing her, always at the same place, always muttering to the same or similar ducks, for weeks before I ventured to speak to her. If I had not had crackers in my pocket I would never have begun our little commerce with an offer of food, but as I stretched my hand across the impossible gulf between us there they were, each a simple orange square, pierced by fork points, twinned with another by a swipe of peanut glue, six such pairs arranged in three ranks of two files each, edge to edge, back to indistinguishable lightly salted back, girdled in cellophane. They had been meant for the dogs, who watched in alarm. Think I can’t get crackers? she asked me. Thinks I can’t get crackers! Not bothering to unwrap them then, I dispensed the packet to the dogs, who tumbled over one another and crushed the crackers to crumbs. Her crew and she have burglarized my home repeatedly since, and so haphazardly I no longer lock it for fear they’ll shatter the rest of the windows as thanks. She leads them in, as she first led them to my door, and if asked why, I suspect her explanation would involve the offer of food. We curl together now, at night, the dogs and I, sometimes in bed, more often beneath it, and huddle head to tail or paw to head or hand and listen for the door. I’ve moved their bowls upstairs. They’re hungry and unwell but rarely vicious, she and those she brings. Whatever made me think I could give a little, without offering all, I regret having thought, but I’m happy when everyone gets a little something, and that the dogs and I have a bed and a home where visitors feel welcome.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 
Thank you so much, anhinga, but I wouldn't want to try it without the other 199. —David
Why, thank you, brother. It's wonderful to see you here. :) —David
All you need is 100 words to make an emotional impact. Touching.
Brilliant, brother. Just simply brilliant.
This Very Short Novel has a strong resemblance to Simple Lessons of War from almost 20 years ago, but is…