JD Devine Behind The Pages

 The Home, She Gave Us By: JD Devine      In the kitchen of their Craftsman home, Rachel and Michael sat at the breakfast nook where Rose had served them Sunday pancakes for thirty years. Rachel’s fingers followed the willow pattern on her mother-in-law’s china, while Michael’s hands shook slightly as he poured coffee into Rose’s favorite floral mug.      “The realtor confirmed that we can list the house next month,” Michael said, trembling fingers through his silver-streaked hair. He left the mug on the table, unable to drink from it or return it to the cabinet.      Rachel’s hands curved around her cup, twisting her mother-in-law’s engagement ring on her finger. Her other hand smoothed invisible wrinkles from the tablecloth where Rose always sat. “You don’t have to decide right away. We own the house outright.”      “Every room—” Michael’s voice caught. His fingers drummed against the table’s edge as he cleared his throa...

 Two Tables at Thanksgiving By: JD Devine      The wind howled through the gaps in the tent's heavy fabric as Specialist James Smith propped his phone against his water bottle. Frost crept along the edges of the canvas, and despite the heater humming nearby, his hands felt cold. He pulled his fleece closer as the familiar ring tone played, watching the spinning circle on his unreliable connection. At this rotation site, the expensive wi-fi kept dropping signals like the temperature dropped at night.      His mother's face appeared first, followed by his stepdad Dave settling into view beside her. His grandmother leaned in from the side.      "Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart!" His mother called out, her voice carrying forced cheerfulness he'd grown familiar with over his deployment. "How are you holding up?"      "I'm good, Mom," James replied, shifting on his cot. "Just finished my shift. We've been busy. The guys are havin...

 The Gift of Freedom By: JD Devine        From sunup to sundown, he remained tethered to his desk, fingers pounding away at a keyboard, helping build someone else’s dream. His heart ached for something greater, something beyond the tedious routine that had become his existence. But freedom felt like a distant myth, a story told to children who hadn’t yet learned the harsh realities of adult life.     During his rare moments of respite, Henry would stare out the office window, watching birds slice through the air with effortless grace. He envied their freedom, their ability to soar above the city’s suffocating grip. When his boss’s sharp voice cut through his daydreams, demanding he return to work, the weight of his reality seemed to crush him a little more. Every keystroke tightened the chains of his corporate bondage.     That night, as he lay in bed rehearsing tomorrow’s burdens, moonlight spilled through his open window, casting silver pa...

 Through Yellow Lace By: JD Devine      Through the gap in the yellow lace curtains, I watch Mr. Hayes arrange his miniature soldiers every Tuesday morning. Each tin warrior stands at attention, their bayonets gleaming like silver needles. He positions them on his combat map.      The parlor is a museum suspended in time. Sepia photographs in tarnished brass frames march across the walls. A grandfather clock stands sentry in the corner, its pendulum motionless as dust floats in the morning light.      Mr. Hayes moves with precision, and his arthritic fingers still graceful as he positions each soldier. He wears a morning pin on his collar every day since I began the postal route. Like his morning pin, the glass of brandy and book appear daily on the table near his leather armchair.      Sometimes I wonder if he knows I watch him as he fights imaginary battles in a room where time has surrendered. His eyes ...

  Grandmother’s Enoteca By: JD Devine The early morning vaporetto rocked against its dock, creaking against the worn wooden pylons as the briny scent of the lagoon drifted through the air. Caterina emptied her pockets on the old marble counter of the Enoteca , her grandmother’s old wine bar. Keys clicked on the marble—the heavy brass one for the front door, the slim silver key for the wine cellar, the modern steel key for her apartment. Her phone clanked down next to the keys, then the red Vaporetto pass, and finally a few coins sang against the stone. But not the locket. She touched her neck as her heart stumbled. The locket’s absence felt like a cold space on her skin; she had worn it every day since her grandmother’s funeral last spring.          Through the arched windows, pigeons strutted across water-stained stones squawking to each other, their iridescent necks flashing purple and green in the early morning light. The autumn a...