- July 8, 2018 was the four-year anniversary of the publication of M. Sakran's collection of poetry First Try.
- The thirty fourth set of photography, artwork, poetry and fiction is below. Set thirty three can be found on the Photography, Artwork, Poetry and Fiction page.
- June 8, 2018, was the three year anniversary of MSakran.com. Check out the About page to learn about the site.
Current photography, artwork, poetry and fiction:
in the bright flower,
although the flower,
does not intend.
In the darkness,
of the water,
the lily pad,
the frog waits.
A Short Story
The drink man
"Let's see, 89 degrees. No, not quite. Maybe tomorrow."
A day passed.
"Let's see … no, still 89 degrees. Not quite."
A day passed.
"Let's see … alright! 90 degrees! The drink man returns!"
Out in the park.
He stopped, sat on the bench and breathed out. He looked at his watch. 10:30 it said. He glanced up at the shining sun. He breathed again and look at the sweat on his arm. Without turning his head, he glanced to his left. The drink man was there.
He breathed again, opened his pack, and took a small bottle out. He opened it, took a sip and poured a little water on his head. He sat, a hand on his knee, and waited.
A woman with a stroller. He watched her go by. A man with a dog. He watched him go by. A woman in athletic gear. He glanced but saw no pack and nothing on her arm. He watched her go by. Then a man came. The pack on his side bounced as he jogged. He sat up a little and smiled.
As the jogger came by, he looked up from his bench, acknowledged with his bottle and took a sip. Without turning his head he watched.
The drink man. His cart was bright. Yellow and green. The paint looked new, as this was the start of the season. He had his sign and his umbrella. Juices, water, sports drinks. Fresh mixes, with real fruit. Cool and shady. A friendly smile. He sat on the bench and smiled himself.
As a fly to a flower, the jogger was drawn in. He could almost see his path start to curve even at a distance. Without knowing it, the juices, water and sport drinks called to him. Without knowing it, the drink man was playing his part.
The jogger's pace was steady, then it sped, then it slowed. A jog, a quick walk, a slow stroll. He stood, his shirt sweaty, caught his breath and looked at the sign. Bright colors, capital letters, round prices.
He stood a moment, opened his pack, and said some words. Reaching in, he pulled it out. A wallet. Leather. Old fashioned. Sitting on the bench, he smiled and started to stand.
The money came out, the drink came out, the exchange was made and he turned to walk away. He put the wallet back, and distracted by his elixir, he only zipped it half way. He took a few steps, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. The bright color and sugar flowed into him. The man by the bench started to jog.
His pace was slow; he knew the jogger's would be too. He passed him, and the drink man, and knew the moment was coming.
After a minute, the jogger appeared. He moved along, bottle in his hand, his bag bouncing at his side. The man slowed, let the jogger get a few feet ahead of him and waited. The chances were coming.
The first chance came, the water fountains, but people were coming, and he had to move around. The second chance came, the short side path. Here it seemed right.
He waited for the mark, the one he had planned for. The jogger passed the spot and he moved. He turned his steps and made his move.
He started to go toward the right, right at the path, with the jogger in between. Looking down, pace steady, the bump was made.
"Oh sorry," he panted, putting his hands up, "just trying to go," he panted again motioning to the path, "just didn't see you. Excuse me."
The jogger, a pleasant sort, said it was no problem and continued straight ahead. The man, his bag bouncing at his side, went down the short side path.
There was the place, by the mulberry bush, he turned inside, and made the switch. The money from the one wallet and into his own – just the cash, as it was harder to trace – and the wallet in the can. It took only three seconds.
He went down the path, he knew it would curve, and he thought to himself, that it was apropos.
Moving along, he saw the drink man, and stopped.
"Yes, the watermelon kiwi, in the extra-large size." It was the most expensive. He thought he owed the drink man something for helping to provide for him.
He took the drink, paid with the jogger's money, and smiled. Taking a sip, he thought it was all very refreshing and he thanked the drink man.