My paddle glides through tranquil waters, reflecting my image but obscuring what lies beneath. A fish jumps skyward then plunges into the swampy depths, startling me out of my trance. I look around. Everyone is still here, slinking through the… Continue Reading
The autumn’s morning fog has thinned to steam by the time Roland Adder’s rusted-out-red pick-up reaches the grove’s edge, dilapidated horse trailer in tow. Beneath swaying skeleton-finger branches, maple and oak leaves crackle under his bowlegged gait as he plods… Continue Reading
I glance at the photograph of my wife, then step outside ready to meet the other woman. Rain pours onto the roof of my porch sounding an accusing hum. Rain. Is that a sign? It was raining the day I… Continue Reading
I’ll readily admit that I was drunk the first time I saw my wife’s ghost. My friends had taken me to O’Shaughnessy’s after Karen’s funeral, and yes, I was planning on getting solid, blackout drunk. What I wasn’t planning on,… Continue Reading
Thunder rumbled overhead as Beaumont Whitley sat reclined in his chair, enjoying a pipe and a good book. Glancing up, he noticed a shadowed figure creep past the window. Beaumont closed the novel and set his Meerschaum aside. Would it… Continue Reading
Cara just left and already the house is in ruins. Dishes rise in tetris piles on every countertop. Mark doesn’t remember eating off them. The fridge hums to itself, dumb and empty. “I’m the fastidious one,” he tells the cat,… Continue Reading
I didn’t like to see her go like that, but perhaps it was for the best. Drowning’s meant to be a good way, but I don’t see how. All that salt water up the nose, and the panic. Though she… Continue Reading
I still walk. Breathe. Eat. I am a corpse in clothes. Want nothing. Numb. Since my husband died, I just don’t want to be here. Here. Anywhere. I poke my emotional ash-heap of a self with sharpened sticks to confirm… Continue Reading
There you are, standing atop the Natural Bridge at Red River Gorge, Kentucky hugging a pine tree, pretending to be afraid to let go. But you aren’t pretending. You’re afraid of heights. It is mid-September, 1984. This picture was taken… Continue Reading
It’s the little things. Those that you have to be still to value. Silent. Like the swirling of dust in a shard of light. Or the melting of snow on a windowpane and the bead of water it leaves behind. … Continue Reading