Revenge Takes Time

This Saturday, Pegman took us to Great Yarmouth, UK. What a marvelous place. The more I write Pegman stories, the more I want to travel. Thanks to Karen Rawson and J. Hardy for being our writerly tour guides, and to Crispina for suggesting this area.

Millwrights demolished the old windmill, claimin the canvas sails too tattery to catch wind.
They built a new one that accommodates a fancy turbine pump and patent sails.

Lack of wind ain’t the reason they tore down the mill.
We all knows there’s wind a-plenty long the river.

Twas the ghost.

Laugh. I won’t blame you. Some say ghosts don’t exist.
For others, they’re as much a part of everyday life as eatin mutton or patchin a tear in your shift.

Differing reasons brings them people back. Too much love. Not enough. Unimaginable violence. Left-behind wives. Or husbands.
They all gots excuses.

There’s little comfort inside the new mill. The old one sounded with rhythm wrought by the wind.
But I’ll sit here, sewing the rips Patrick McCrory tore in my shift,
biding my time til Patrick’s great-grandson arrives to oil the turbine.

Then he’ll get his come-uppins for the sins of his ancestor.

The Interrupted Promise

Sitting alone, listening to umpa music, wasn’t what Rolando had planned.
The night was to be full of adventure, excitement, freedom. And flight.
Yes, he and Fastina were escaping this tiny town full of prejudice.
Returning to Mexico where people ate tortillas stuffed with chicken mole
while listening to mariachi music. And dancing.
Fastina’s father had shouted, “No!” Rolando’s mother? She cried.
Still, the couple packed their bags – hid them by the gazebo.
So where was Fastina? She promised to meet him at 10:00.

Fastina screamed Rolando’s name as five enormous white men
watched another rip the buttons off her blouse.

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