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The Gift
by Lesley C. Weston
She had restless hands - always
touching things, worrying edges, plucking at
seams, flattening fringes, or
twisting rings and errant wisps of her hair.
He wanted to catch them,
hold them, and bring them to his lips, but their
constant motion denied his
every attempt.
Longing to still those traveling hands, he had a pair of
gloves made for
her.
The box was slender and tied with a soft satin
ribbon. He watched her
spidery fingers tug at the bow, press the crimps in
the surface with her
knuckles, wind the length of it around her palm - making
figure eights
between her finger and thumb.
Her nails pried, palms
braced, fingers winched, as she removed the lid from
the box. Parting the
cardboard, she lay the halves down and nudged them,
until they formed a
perfect line - side by side on the gleaming mahogany
table.
Thin, fine
leather of a blushing rose-tint, they nested inside crinkled
paper. She
lifted the paper out, placed it on the table, and unfolded each
side of the
wrapping, smoothing each crease against the wood.
The gloves lay in the
middle, palm to palm, the thumbs tucked innocently
between them. Flat, still,
demure, they waited for the invasion of her long,
dancing fingers.
"Oh, look!" she said. "They're asleep!"
Tucking them back into
the smooth folds, she drew the paper over them,
nestled them back into the
box, softly joined the halves together, re-tied
the bow and returned the gift
with a sigh. "I can't bear to wake them."
* * *
Missing
Plank
by Lesley C. Weston
There is nothing left for man here.
No doors swing open to the dawn. No tractor moves to plow the fields into
fertility. No cows sway, sleepy in the filtering shafts of morning light,
shifting hooves, awaiting milking. No mare knickers, fogging the air with
blowing breath.
The cracks in the barn-planks will only widen. The windows will shatter
inside damp swollen frames. The walls will peel, list and finally surrender
to the earth. The weathervane will never be reset to point the way of
freshening breezes.
At the edge of the canvas, beneath the weight of the empty bucket, beneath
the dry pool of spilled red paint, the grass is struggling toward the hard
heat of the sun. Beneath the grass a creature digs, crawls and scratches
towards its final moment.
Silent hunters crouch and wait. Still as sentries, with keen and sneaky
glances they watch. Only the hungry twitching of the young Tom's tail gives
warning of their murderous intent.
By the open door, eyes shielded from the light, the hunters blend into the
mottled, flaking, boards. They hide in the shadows of the broken places.
This desolate, orphaned place is now fully theirs.
Oh, the unconscious eternity of them.
At the first rustling, they do not flinch. They all know how this hunt is
done, know the most intimate details of their terrain, of how and what it
offers in their endless day.
Most were born here, passed bloody and blind into the ripe straw in stalls
or tumbled into faded blankets.
Most will find their end here, in a raging fight for mating, from the cold
where walls once stood, or in the jaws of something stronger.
In their world the young, the fast, the strong survive.
None will meet the knowing passage of old, crippling and solitary age.
None will feel their world collapse around them.
Order Missing Plank and The Gift imprinted on coffee
mugs
BIO: Lesley C. Weston
loves stories that are character driven, loves words
more than food and loves
her dog with a passion that some find peculiar.
After years of concentrating
her creative energy on the performing arts, she
discovered a passion for
writing.
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MUG 11 = $12.00 US plus shipping
MORPHMUG11= $15.00 US plus shipping
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