Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store

A book shop that is no longer there

If we had been good for a whole month, father gave us each fifty-cents. My brothers tripped over each other to get to the candy or ice cream cone shop first. I went to Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store instead.

When the door squealed open, Mr. Cravitts’ parrot squawked, “Go out. Come In.“

A crookedly lettered sign, 5 books for .50, hung over several shelves in the darkest, dustiest corner of the shop. I piled books on the floor, sat down to chose my dreams and adventures.

Too soon, the parrot excitedly “chimed” “You’re early. You’re late.”

Reluctantly removing books from my lap, I slowly unfolded my legs. With five treasures in my book-bag, I left my .50 cents on the counter, slammed the door behind me and ran for home.

Winter — open coat flapping. Fall — scarf unraveling.  Spring – rubber boots splashing. Summer — floppy hat slipping.

In my attic office, there is an old battered bookcase stuffed with ragged, torn and much-loved books. Mr. Cravitts and his book shop are gone, but not his treasures. A crookedly lettered sign stands on the top of the book case: 5 books for .50.


Written for the January 25, 2015 edition of Sunday Photo Fiction so creatively and capably run by Al.


possibilities in pink

94 01 January 4th 2015

The package came on a dreary, sleety Saturday.

Underneath layers of brown paper held in place by miles of environmentally-friendly twine was a small box.

I took the lid off. Nestled inside was a tiny pink angel carved from rhondochrosite. Curiouser and curiouser.

I call her my guardian angel in pink. She sits on a shelf in my workspace.

I had tettered and swayed at the edge of the abyss. All seemed darkness and futility. I’d lost my spirit, my spark.

Then the tiny pink angel arrived.

What was dark is now bright. Flowers in glass bottle vases. Stained glass window prism-shadows form patterns on the floor. I dance to invisible music. She is my creativity; her image in my art, poems, and stories.

Whoever sent the tiny pink angel to me, probably saved my life. Thank you.

I know someone who is really hurting. Would you mind if I anonymously mailed the guardian angel in pink to her?


Written for the first Sunday Photo Fiction of 2015.