by Michael Green

NIGHT PRAYER


The night was cold, and the moon hung pale in the late February sky. Jenny stood out in the backyard; small hands clasped in desperate prayer, she stared up at the clear, except for the moon and a slight scattering of stars, black sky.
     
“Please, God, please don’t take Grandmother from us, from me. She is everything to us, to me. Please, please, don’t.”
     
Her tears were like ice on her face. Jenny knew that cancer was bad but didn’t know that much about it. She’d heard the word for the first time this evening at the dinner table.






WATER

The waters receded.
Bodies were everywhere. Bloated. Some had begun to rot.
The flies were thick in the heat.
Quickly it turned from a rescue operation to a recovery operation.
Two or three times a day he threw up. He never got used to the smell of the dead bodies.

Michael Green lives in Kettering, Ohio with his wife and five children. He has been a filmmaker, sportswriter, sous chef, construction laborer, foster parent. He has published fiction and poetry in Bitterroot International Quarterly, Modern Haiku, Red Cedar Review, The Phoenix, Literary Heist, Blue Lake Review, Rougarou, and many others.