My brother decided to take matters into his own hands. He crouched in the shadows of our backyard with a shotgun packed with rock salt. A prowler had previously invaded our home and left our nights anxiously sleepless. He had left dirt-outlined footprints that lead from the open kitchen door into our living room.
Presently, our guy appeared. Rusty took aim, missed, and hit our backdoor leaving a splintered hole. Prowler took off running followed close behind by my brother. On this day without a date, on a backstreet, dusky, a scream was heard as my brother zeroed in and met his mark in the guy’s buttocks!
In hysterics, Prowler approached a neighbor saying that a madman had tried to kill him. As my brother caught up to them, he explained the situation, and the man was detained by them both for the authorities.
Join us at dVerse Poets Pub as we write Prosery with Lisa hosting.
Photo by Dale Rogerson; All Rights Reserved
She thought that she was going to die at age 92 because two of her older sisters had died at that age. We wondered that whole year that she turned 92 if her belief was going to come to fruition. But no, it didn’t. She lived on past 95.
We cleared out the remnants of her house later that year. Had started while she was still alive, weeding through all her kept memorabilia—some over eighty years old.
This folding chair was unwanted. We didn’t remember where it had come from but now it could become someone else’s future memory.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields leads us in 
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