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I said that I would soon write something on the topic of vacations; mountains, beaches, deserts, etc. Well I have been too busy, with work and fiction, and reading, to put that together just yet. I promise it will come...I cannot promise when. For now, please enjoy this fragment of a story. As always, if you would ever like to read more of one of my stories email me at aminnick85@gmail.com, or, leave a comment and express your wishes.

With Respect to St. Peter

By Andrew Minnick

On her forearms she crawls across the swamp. Roots punch through the muck sometimes and leave their dark purple mark in bruised splotches on her elbows. She labors to breathe; she puffs out her cheeks, she exhales so that all the trees might hear her, she drops her tongue onto her chin where it leaves sloppy streaks of foaming, bubbling, white saliva. She sees me, but I’m not looking. I speak to her with my back, flexing the muscles around my shoulder blades, then disappearing. I hear her first, it is through the looking glass I see her. The toes of her pink boots leave ruts in the ground where they drag along behind her. Her progress is marked. She will never escape the predators.

            She howls. That’s my cue, when I’m to reappear, the savior god of her mystic world. My red, black, and white eyes hang from the clouds. She rolls onto her back, supplicant, and extends her hands. Over them I slip her wings.  She is young, five years old, maybe six. Today her wings are red and white, and blue and red.

She takes flight and weaves between the mountains tops, between stacks of snack cakes, and around the soda fountain, and by freezer doors full of bottled juices and pints of ice cream; they move her with their chilling trade winds whenever opened. She soars above the canopy of black and white linoleum forest, stopping only when she’s found the treasure, the red wire stand of gourmet candies. It is three shelves high and full of truffles, dark chocolates, decadent sweets filled with marzipan and pistachio and flavored ganaches, none of which ever sell.

            She always starts by grabbing something large. “How about, this one,” She says, flashing a pleading, playful grin. I used to remark on her ambition. Now I return her grin with my own. She will work her way through the candies, from the bars of chocolate, through the wrappers of red, yellow, green, gold and white, repeating the little smile, until I nod and she stands tall. Sometimes she stands on the tips of her toes (she’s practiced this dozens upon dozens of times now) , cups the precious candy in her palms, then zooms through the three isles of Summer’s Spring Mini Market where she might covet and devour her prize. Or, she might come back, and then I will seat her on the counter, where, perched she can greet the afternoon customers.

            I think her name is Amanda, she calls herself Mandy. She shows up a little after noon nearly every day. When I take the cigarettes packages from their cartons, and put them up in rows along the wall behind the counter, I keep the boxes. I flatten and secure them under a heavy quartzite rock (one I found on a day hike in eastern Pennsylvania), beneath the cash register. I don’t keep a gun. I’m not a pacifist, I just don’t think I could shoot one. I imagine if I had a gun here, stuck with duct tape to the underside of the counter, I would never remember to switch the safety off. Why risk that kind of embarrassment? I would laugh at me. Instead I have this rather fluster-and-fool-proof block of quartzite which holds down the cigarette cartons, the cartons that the cute little kid who comes into my store flaps around in as she creates the belief that they are feathered, fairy tale, wings.

Hope you enjoyed that...

Ok so I couldn't leave you without a little bit of what I promised over a week ago. 

Benches in odd places, mountains, beaches, deserts, anywhere, intrigue me. Benches tend to be empty. Just think of all that they see...