By Mercedes Lawry
She sang a reckless song and wandered beyond the fence, through tufts of blue grass and cabbage moths. Her voice contained bells, the sound of bells, clear and forceful. A red-tailed hawk circled, then disappeared. There was a scant wind but she could feel it building. Small hills in the distance scribbled the sky. Steps, one after another. Breaths, too. She was daring the long and short of it, passing through simple shadows, trees that had not given up. She was singing, as she always had. She was walking to find out how the song would end and whether tragedy came in chapters and how to move from one to the next.
Mercedes Lawry has published short fiction in several journals including, Gravel, Cleaver, and Blotterature. She was a semi-finalist in The Best Small Fictions 2016 and was nominated twice for Best Microfiction 2021. She’s published three poetry chapbooks and was nominated for Pushcart seven times. She lives in Seattle.
The Birdseed 