By Vincent Barry

I am thinking, perhaps, the fall hand-painted one, though the spring solid brass butterfly handcrafted to perfection is eye-catching, is it not? It is. Frankly, I am lost in the woods, I truly am. I mean I yearn for the perfect place to be loved, remembered, kept. In a ring? a bracelet? a necklace? I am truly lost, at a loss. I was taught, you see, not to be on land, in air, at sea, or in some other way, so as to avoid, y’see, all appearance of pantheism, naturalism, nihilism, or any other such ism. That aside, looking inside, for a guide, “Thank God!” for finding, no, fronting the essential facts of my life: a farmhouse on a winding road, a one-story wooden structure with dormered attic with front and back doors that squeakily swing open, the one to let in the summer’s breath, the other to let it out, through a wide central hall that’s the pulse of family life. For that I yearn at the point of no return to be a pendant resplendent, a keepsake of deep ache. . . . 

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After retiring from a career teaching philosophy, Vincent Barry returned to his first love, fiction. His stories have appeared in numerous publications in the U.S. and abroad, including: The Saint Ann’s Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Broken City, Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Kairos, Terror House, Caveat Lector, The Fem, BlogNostics, The Writing Disorder, whimperbang, The Disappointed Housewife, The Collidescope, Anti-Heroin Chic, Beakful, Bombfire, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Pigeon Review. Barry lives in Santa Barbara, California.

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