The Big Carrot courtyard, shaded and caffeinated.

Caucasian woman, early to mid thirties, wearing loose faded jeans and a worn orange t-shirt. (She is, after all, on vacation.) A tiny sparrow, finch, robin, falcon, she can't tell the difference, lands on her table eyeing muffin crumbs. They converse. The woman and the bird, not the bird and the muffin crumbs. Muffin crumbs can't talk. But if they could, what would they say? "I beseech thee, talon beastie! Not another step closer!" Perhaps.

Geist, summer 2007 (The Geist Foundation)

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From "The Gist of Everything" by Quade Hermann

I stare at the floor, wondering if I've falsely accused her. Accidents do happen, after all. A few minutes later she hobbles back past me and into the kitchen, gabbling on about her cat's arthritis, as if I hadn't asked about her drinking and she hadn't refused to answer.

The phone rings once, a rushed pick up, the cradle landing on the carpet, a muted thud she can hear even from the guest room. She's awake, chest pounding. She props up on her elbows, remembers where she is. Flight home tomorrow. She strains to hear the tone of the whisper, adjusts to the glow of the clock radio, 2:23 am. Jesus, flight home today. She turns on her side and compulsively smoothes the rumples of her bed sheet, wishing her mother would get a new boyfriend.