Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • As I walk past the house that once belonged to Canyon Bob, a man rides by on his bike, mumbling and shouting and staring around suspiciously. Canyon Bob told me that this bike rider, with his grizzled red hair, beard and bright fluorescent orange and yellow vest, watched his father blow his own brains out with a gun when he was a child. He sits tall and straight on his bike. I watch him pass and consider his life, which I know almost nothing about, except that he rides all over.
  • Then, I think about Canyon Bob. Where is Canyon Bob? He no longer lives in this house; someone else does. How is he? Still drinking? "I'm not an alcoholic; alcoholics go to meetings. I'm a drunk." He tottered as he said that, clutching a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. I wonder if the story about the father of the man who talks out loud while he rides his bike is true. I don't know. In a court of law, it would be hearsay, and from an unreliable witness.
  • Looking from Canyon Bob’s ahead down the street, I see a horse, a black horse with a rider. Two riders. The horse minces along the edge of Balduck Park, with four white stockings. Almost dances. Then, I see it is two people with black tights, black shirts, white socks and white shoes carrying something between them on their shoulders. I am the star witness. I would take an oath that I saw a horse, that is, I would have, two seconds before I realized the one horse was two people.
  • I stop to rub the scabrous surface of some elm leaves. I study an ash tree that is dying of the ash borer disease and has dead branches sticking out of a central cluster of leaves. I notice porch lights on in the blaring sun at the small white house on the corner. I am taking notes, as two cars simultaneously nearly run me down at the stop sign on Chandler Park Drive. They whiz past on either side, the wind of their passing spinning my braids.
  • I picture myself up in heaven. I am dead, and the heavenly police are questioning me. Who struck you? They ask. Duh, I say, there were two vehicles, I think a black SUV and a small white car. Make and model? Gender of driver? Duh, I repeat. There was a stop sign, I say. They were supposed to stop. I had the right of way. It’s true; there was a stop sign. They were supposed to stop. But being right doesn’t help when you are dead, and an unreliable witness to boot.
  • I step from an alternate universe back into this one, where I am safe, if slightly shaken. Here the sun shines on black, black clouds and the cicadas celebrate summer with their song. A woman drives her wheelchair down the middle of the road as cars zip past, dodging around her. A small boy does a wheelie on his small bike. I take a deep breath and keep walking.
  • Image: my stupid Photoshop which I bought and paid for, CS3, says I have to reactive it, so I can't do what I wanted to do with this image until I locate the activation number. From YEARS ago! I was going to layer a car on the represent Balduck Park with passing cars. If I can find it, I will add it later. I did the cover one on Google's free Picasa.

    The next day, on a different computer with a different version of Photoshop, I add two cars, next page . . .
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.