Category Archives: Derek Ivan Webster

He was waiting for the chickadees. They had left with the cold; went south or whatever. He cleaned their house out over the long winter. The roof was patched and the new paint shiny and white. He had done the … Continue reading →

She made that face when he said it, the one that reminded him of his mother. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his tone even. What came out was script swiped straight from the old man. “Who … Continue reading →

One after another they jangled as they skittered across the ground. The hours of blasting percussion had all but stolen his ears, yet the sharp metal tinkle of brass on stone still wormed its way inside his helmet. The belt … Continue reading →

The old man handed him a foil wrapped Swisher, puffing away at his own from between grey teeth. “I’m not supposed to smoke,” the boy said. He took the cigar anyway. They sat in two chairs facing off an open … Continue reading →

The pinecone fell at the edge of the lawn. It landed in that confused region neither manicured enough for grass nor wild enough for weed. It was smooth and dark like a single piece of aged leather. Seen through my … Continue reading →

She placed strips of lace about the wrists. Pearls were strung and restrung around the neck. A base layer was powdered atop the features and subdued umber colors were chosen to highlight the lips and eyelids. The skin was dry … Continue reading →