Z. E. Wayland

Though the temple is fasting, the town is not. So, we drive down the mountain path, barely touching the gas pedal. Brother Monk, who has the privilege to live in the comfortable bedrooms, throws gravel with every turn. The pebbles sound like summer rain when they land in the forest below. It’s Little Monk that brought money and brought me, his western brother. He complains something to Brother Monk. Brother Monk makes a funny retort. They both laugh; I laugh because they laugh. When we reach the bottom, Little Monk shoves money into my hands. I reject, Little Monk offers again, and I accept, tucking the bills away before we arrive at the tourist area. They take a lot less pictures of us now that we’re not wearing our robes. Tourists chatter on about how “different the air is than in America” and how “nice it would be to be a monk.” I can’t stop to join their conversation and clear the jam of words in my throat. They would mistake me for a local. The three of us spread along a bar. It s...

Water froze atop the pavement overnight. Skaters filled the park with bodies gliding on its surface. There were no new neighbors. No new skaters wobbled with the children. And teenagers filled their time before winter bid nobody go outside. Robin walked in three pairs of socks, holding generation old skates. She knew all the faces and all the ones missing; hockey kids have migrated because a puck and stick went through her window. Her socks stay on when she comes home. Soon, the carpet won’t have glass and glass will replace wooden boards. Then, she’ll watch the snow fall, descend down like wishes from the dark. Skates on the ice, Robin circled Emily’s unofficially reserved seat. Each time around like paired clock hands counting seconds without her. She was skater then a spectator then saying goodbye. Soon, the sale sign will be pulled and strangers shuffle in with smiles in Spring. Those new neighbors will never be like the Duttons. But, some day, the two will laugh together again at ...