Ian M. Anderson

Mason Bloom shook off all his doubts about leaving -- about seeking a way to leave -- and decided to purchase a new home in the Singing Creek housing community. The realtor had a long list of prospective places for him, but the idea of a creek running nearby had been enough for Mason. Of course, it was only an idea -- the small creek had been mostly diverted long ago as more houses were built. Mike, his aspiring realtor, said, "You know there's no actual creek." But Mason stepped into the back yard without answering. He knew. The yard he walked through that day consisted of a patch of dry lawn and weeds poking from mounds of topsoil. He grew a new garden in his mind -- "Don't you want to see the bedrooms?" Mike had asked from the deck. Mason hadn't answered that question either -- he let the dirt crunch under his rubber soled shoes, and at one point closed his eyes to better feel the sun on his neck. Later, standing next to Mike, Mason said, ...

On the northernmost edge of the south side stood a Pelican Burger -- "Proudly serving the city's biggest burger since 1978" -- and its sign loomed over 56th street so that the head of a massive pelican cast a deep shadow, westward during early morning hours, then to the east as the day waned. The bird's plastic head could be seen as far away as 52nd, and the running joke of those who lived nearby was if you saw the feathered head even that far off, you were caught -- or just as well you were -- by the large beak of the pelican: your next meal awaited you, no matter the hour. Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw's mind clenched like a fist as she stood under the creaking Pelican Burger sign. From where she stood she could hear the commotion of customers inside, and she saw her son, Matthew, standing along the wall. The muscles in her neck tightened; she gritted her teeth. Deep in the recesses of her thoughts she remembered telling him he could be anything he wanted to be. This co...

The protagonist of this story is a six year old boy. If he heard that last sentence read to him, he would want me to change the word protagonist to hero: fine -- hero it is. However, he has not heard that he is the hero of this story, but is busy moving his stuffies from his bed upstairs to the downstairs sitting room. (He was a hero last week, too, when he saved aforementioned stuffies, first of all Doggie, then Charles the Lamb, from a fire that suddenly erupted during his oatmeal breakfast. The oatmeal, as you may have guessed, had become pasty, and that's when smoke began to roll out from underneath the wingback chair in the adjacent room. It was put out quickly with the help of his beach pail, which just happens to hold endless amounts of seawater. But that was last week, and the stuffies, along with our hero, have long forgotten the excitement of those events.) Here he is, taking one stair at a time, his face hidden by fluff. It's obvious he's talking, but it's ...

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean -- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition. -- "Devotion" by Robert Frost *** 1. The man walked aimlessly in a wilderness of pine needles and bracken. His hands bled at the palms and bruises darkened his fingernails, for he'd climbed many rocks and trees, always heading up and up though the way proved hard. Yet his purpose was hidden from him. Many times, as dry leaves crunched or sticks or needles snapped under his feet, he said, "I have forgotten why." But up he climbed. The woman, however, waded streams and watery paths so that her feet were wet and cold. She had resolved to find the water's source; "Long ago," she said to herself. "Long ago I began." And it was so. The streams she followed swerved and twisted and hid themselves deep underground for days on end until, with hope dying, she'd hear a fa...

The sun room: Piles of boxes, photo albums, cobwebs, sheets draped over furniture like so many playhouse ghosts, like so many early memories that could be fading dreams born from the imagination of a hurting soul. And the piano in the corner. *** The memory of the sun room came back to Martin as he held a green head of cabbage in the produce section of the grocery store. His first reaction, once the image faded, was to text his brother: "Grandma had a piano?" He slid his phone into his pocket and grabbed another cabbage, Grandma Morris taking more space in his brain: She had sun-catchers dangling on the windows -- mostly cardinals, bright red, and he remembered passing his hands through the crimson light. The text back from his brother read, "Grandma Morris? Don't you remember her sun room? We eat in 10 min. from now -- that means at 7." Martin had both cabbages pressed to his ribs with his left arm and he tapped out another text with his right hand. ...