My older sister Kolt storms into the kitchen like an angry ostrich, all neck and ruffled feathers and big round eyes. Her fists are balled, her face splotchy red, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She’s barefoot. I bite… Continue Reading
I was thirteen when Daryl Harrison fell off our grain bin. Zach brought me along once to go visit him in the hospital. I remember clenching onto the plastic railing of the footboard of his bed. It all happened on… Continue Reading
“You’re such a moron.” I’m touching the steering wheel with just my fingertips, it’s so hot. “I’m a moron?” Randy laughs from the passenger seat. He hits the dash with his palm. “You’re my brother — what does that make… Continue Reading
“What time does it all kick off?” my sister asks me. At least I think that’s what she’s saying. She’s calling from another dimension, in another time. “I can barely hear you, Amelia,” I say. “You sound very far away.”… Continue Reading
“Is that a Wyndham flower?” Milton stared with some concern at the strange, semi-translucent stalk, ghastly pale and no bigger around than his thumb. It clung precariously to the handle of an old shovel resting in the corner of the… Continue Reading
I park in her driveway, walk up her walk, and turn her key in its lock. It feels wrong, and the door sticks, as if it agrees. As if even it knows I’m far too late. I’ve driven through two… Continue Reading
Stickers from local hardcore bands and chewed gum are all over the rocket ship outside the Winn-Dixie. “I wanna go for a ride,” my little brother says. I had to put him in a t-shirt with the least amount of… Continue Reading
My sister slices the pie, her lips drawn together in a tight purse, the disapproving grimace of a person performing an unfamiliar task. We sit at the dining room table. I look because I can’t stop myself from staring over… Continue Reading
My sister was thirteen when she died. All crooked and soft white like a dogwood flower floating on the water. I heard my mother sobbing on the phone that she had broken her neck nearly to a ninety-degree angle, a… Continue Reading
I have all my memories stored in jars, lined up in date order. One for each year; their sizes vary depending on how many memories I have for each year. When the girls were young, and Tim was still alive,… Continue Reading