You said it was poetry––the block of grey blue sky and greasy clouds. You patted the bench beside you, but I didn’t sit. The park smelled of fried chicken and waffles from that place across the street, the one we never did try because who mixed chicken and waffles?
The rain started up, slow at first, then dumping everything it had been saving up. Neither of us moved––you sitting there, and me facing you, watching your stillness.
The clouds closed in, closed up, until all I saw was your eyes and the street light flickering above. You were all silver and light as the rain filled our socks and our world.
2 Replies to “Fried Chicken and Waffles”
NICE! I LIKE IT, CARMEN.
Thank you Sarah!
Word of the Year-2025
For my 2025 word of the year, I chose COURAGE. I know, it’s not the most original pick—but hear me out. Something about courage stuck with me this time, especially after watching a documentary on The Tragically Hip. For those unfamiliar, they’re kind of a Canadian thing. A band that
Hinterland is Real
They say seeing is believing. I didn’t know what that meant until that night. I was coming home late, later than I should, and I knew I was going to catch heck. Momma didn’t even pretend to be patient when me or my sister wasn’t home in time for dinner.
Deadly Mist
The mist crept closer, slithering across the boot prints she left behind on the soft, moist ground. She urged her legs to go faster over the uneven path. A leafless tree grabbed at the flying strands of her long silver hair as she ran past. They hung like shiny tinsel