The End

The End

By M. F. B. Porter

A single shot rings

Through the air.

First Sight

First Sight

M.  F.  B.  Porter

We just met one night

pumpkins on the porch

lanterns

flickering

Inheritance

Inheritance

By M. F. B. Porter

My father was a very eccentric man. I ponder this thought as I turn the brassy knob of the heavy oak door to his study.  It’s familiar creaking hangs nostalgically in the air, and I recall a time many years ago when I pushed open this same study door, anticipating the sight of my tan, gray-haired father perched at his desk, peering at a stack of starch white papers.  Albeit, I was much shorter then, smaller too, but just for a moment, I could see him there, at his desk.  

He isn’t there now.

The Birdcage and the Barstool

The Birdcage and the Barstool

By M. F. B. Porter

I sat huddled in the shadows of the corner of the room, observing silently the thick murky wax that lacquered the scuffed club floor.