Fiction / Short Stories


I was seventy-seven come August,
  I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I?ve experienced zephyr and raw gust
  And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,
  To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
 As to what you got out of it all.

So I?ll say, though reflection unnerves me
  And pronouncements I dodge as I can
That I think (if my memory serves me)
  There was nothing more fun than a man! 

?In my country?, he said in a soft, steady voice, ?they used to burn widows to death on their husbands? funeral pyres.?

??Used to? is the operative word, I hope?, she answered lightly, masking the chill his comment sent through her.