Carol A. Taylor

I stole an apple, ripe and red, ?hanging on my neighbor’s tree. ?“He’ll never miss just one,” I said, ?and ate it up. Then, fat and fed, ?I licked my sticky hands and fled, ?smug and conscience-free. But as I quit the neighborhood, ?a thief, who’d seen my larceny, . . . . Continue Reading »

Thanksgiving Day, 2010 The turkey’s in the oven. My bare feet rest on the windowsill. A welcome breeze wafts past ten gnarled toes, a late fall treat. The forecast says tonight it’s going to freeze. A new computer sits with darkened screen, with bells and whistles I don’t want or need, while . . . . Continue Reading »

St. Peter stands at the Heavenly Gates? enrolling a new admission. “Reporting for duty, sir,” Mike Clancy states. “ First, make a good Act of Contrition. ” Mike signs himself and confesses his sins: “Well, I drink a bit more than I should? and brawl some and lie some.” “ Absolved, ” . . . . Continue Reading »