Finally you are here. We've turned and tilted in just the right ways for you to be in our sights to be imbued in your embrace. Welcome...September (C) Glenda Kotchish 9/1/2023
Tulips lean over the vase edge Color faded, wilting on the hearth
At the base lies the dog sleeping curled into a ball rays of sun warming him— A slight jerk, perhaps a dream
The sound of dripping from the clogged gutter outside the window
The clock on the brick wall ticks away out of rhythm with the drain pipe’s dripping— no rhythm at all this collaboration
Distressing like the rapping of young people’s music makes me long for Bach
I rise find the blue-tooth speaker the cell phone, amazon music press buttons slide screens
Bach centuries old joins in
(C) Glenda Kotchish 2022
The birds in the bleak mid-winter, before dawn tucked in the trees, quiet, waiting, sleeping. The deer somewhere in the the woods grazing in familiar places, perhaps they will come to my door for corn. Later, I will put hot water in the bird bath to melt the ice. Later. (C) Glenda Kotchish January 2022
Neil Gaiman, in his master study class said that you should keep a compost book–a book of ideas, starts of stories. And while this log would most likely be undeveloped, it would provide you with material for future stories when you or it had matured.
This story, “Homearama” was in my compost book, actually the very last page of the book. I jotted down the words last summer when I saw a brochure on a new development in my hometown. The image was captivating in its starkness. I haven’t changed a single word from the original. I hope you enjoy it.
She is a white fox now and hidden from view. It’s hard to see her, especially on misty, foggy days. But she’s there, white, silver, vixen and wise. She knows all the tricks, old and newly invented; so beware when she slips across the corner of your vision. She’s up to something, to be sure.
In yonder year she was red and blazed like the sun. A shot, a comet, a blast of color she was, slipping in and out of the hen house, under the fence, through the hedge, into the woods. Her long legs admired, the swish of her tail–envied. Her head held high, she pranced about, skipping across the brook, into the stream, swimming, bounding into the river–currents ignored–she emerged–on top–always.
She is all this, still. She’s bold, she’s bright but ignored. You’ve been warned. If you see her, you might not, you probably won’t but she’s stirring the pot, she making things happen, she’s molding you and you have no clue.
© Glenda Kotchish
July 25, 2018
Their brother sometimes comes with them But mostly, they come alone--just the two of them. They are getting braver which may not be a good thing, in the end. They don't startle at every sound. The man next door walks down his driveway towards the garbage cans. The cans make a noise as he tosses in his trash. They glance his way for a moment, then continue grazing. They are not bothered by the cardinals and chickadees feeding. One of them watches the feeder swing, perhaps interested in the seeds. When the older brother, born the year before them, comes, he stands back and watches. He might eat a kernel of corn. I've seen him lick them and clean their ears--copying what their mother did for them. They lick each other now that she's gone. Someone said they saw a deer carcass at the abandoned house on Traylor road. Buzzards were hovering around. It was probably their mother--she's been absent for two weeks now. She probably went there to die quietly. The fawns will survive the coming winter. They are putting on weight. I put out the corn everyday for them. (c) Glenda Kotchish 9/28/2021
The fawns showed up today, twins. They are old enough to graze. Here’s a short story. Hidden.
They went out in the sunlight took off their face masks breathed the fresh air had a bit of fun. Only a few noticed the long shadows before the night-- The end of things as they knew them. © Glenda Kotchish July 2021
A short-short story I ran across this morning from 2016 that I like. A quick read.