Bio Note: I write mainly poetry but have won a contest before for short fiction. The most unusual place I wrote was in a Jeep on the coast of Iceland in 70 mile per hour winds. I've also written while brewing beer in the wee hours with Austrian monks. I write when I have to.
The Monk's Fishing House at Cong Abbey
Monks catch & prepare fish for the order, trap doors & rope lines connected to kitchens in underground fireplaces. We pass it on a foggy day, a crisp chill in the air, one that you know won’t kill you. They always let us in side their cellar for chilled brews aged since spring’s first clover. They keep steins for guests. Mine is named Harold and looks like my body when viewed from the side. The handle is adequate. There might be a ghost of a leak in the bottom. There is hope in fog, thick as it may be. And fish seem to know that they will have a nice ending.
Like When You Walk under Birds
People are sparrows – loud, obnoxious at times, and always taking in seeds, expelling seed husks, spending their days at conventions on wires, long serious meetings where none of them move for hours. I’m certain that these chatty feather-collections would be insulted if it were the other way around.
©2023 John Dorroh
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