Short Fiction
The Storymaster
He arrived in the village one day in March. It was cold and muddy. At first I thought that perhaps he was a beggar, with his worn boots and moth-eaten wool cape, but he did not have the face of a beggar. There was too much pride in the broad forehead and hawk nose. And his eyes–the color of cave ice, a faraway blue.
He stood beside the stall of William Broad, who sold barley corn seed. He raised his voice. “I bring wisdom,” he said, ‘from a faraway place. “….
Frogsong
On the TV it’s Boston versus Chicago. 4-0 lead White Sox in the fifth with one out when Lou Marson is up at bat. Marson hits and Buehrlie, the pitcher, tries to stop the ground ball with his left foot when it ricochets and rolls up his shin. He races after the ball, grabs it with his glove, then- unbelievable!- throws it backhand between his legs to Konerko, the first baseman, who makes the out. An impossible play. The crowd roars. I want to roar with it. I start to. I rise and my head pokes out of the water. Then I remember. I’m a frog….
“Big body movement,” says Stacy. “Aerobics. Running.” And so I run. I run around the indoor track at the West Side Y. It’s on the second floor, built right over the gym; a kind of circular deck, covered with some rubberized material, that is supported by columns anchored in the gym below. Overhead a bank of fluorescent bulbs sizzles, throwing a chalky light down. Usually the only sounds are our footsteps, tapping against the surface of the track. If it’s really quiet, the rasp of breath….