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Sunday
by Judson Hamilton

I keep coming back to that day
when I awoke from an eight hour block of sleep and
you said you were going to cook breakfast for 'your husband'
in a tone of voice which promised something grand.

About half-an-hour later you brought apple fritters to me on the back porch where I sat trying to make sense of the sun and the birds as my mind leapt from limb to limb along with them like a set of scampering lemurs and the hornets
fortifying their nest just under the corner of our garage.

I explained that these weren't technically pancakes but apple fritters and you said that in Polish they were called hoofprints. We laughed at that and spent the rest of the early afternoon comparing languages and licking marmalade off our fingers.

Later we went for an afternoon stroll in the park just next to our house. The shade was deep and intense; intimate and comforting all at once and we followed a path we hadn't seen before. It led to a ravine surrounded by open fields where kids in their underwear and floaties splashed about while family dogs paddled nervously around them.

When we got back the fire department was there in their big black boots and we pointed out the hornets' nest. One of the men emerged from the truck in a beekeeper's costume and after climbing a short stepladder filled the hole with foam. There were ten or fifteen hornets flying around and it was then that I understood the meaning of :
'to stir up a hornets' nest'.

And how afterwards we took a walk in the park and talked about other people's kids and our upcoming first
until we went past an open clearing and you pretended not to see me looking at the girls in their bikinis
just as I pretended to focusing all of my attention on our conversation

Then we came home and had a light dinner
watermelon and cold salmon on crackers and thick wedges of camembert with a fruity white wine for me and a Shirley Temple for you

and how later, I could feel my heart beating in the darkness as we lay in bed
and yours two
as I rubbed your belly
two birds of a feather
beating their wings in time.



About the author:
Judson Hamilton lives in Wroclaw, Poland. More of his work can be found by plugging his name in to the search engine of your choice. He has chapbooks forthcoming this year from both Cervena Barva and Greying Ghost. He can be reached at : be_mightee@hotmail.com



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Midnight Picnic
a novel by
Nick Antosca

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The Suburban Swindle


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