Tag Archives: Short Story

Surrender

by Kristi Ferguson

He learned if he could make Mom laugh, everything would be okay.

He relied on that certainty when she discovered him sneaking to the corner store, first for candy, then for beer and cigarettes. He used it when he was months behind on child support after the first unplanned pregnancy, before the DNA results came back and the baby turned out not to be his. It was there again when he admitted to the second baby, which was his, after Mom received a midnight Facebook message from the pregnant ex-girlfriend, telling her everything.  Continue reading

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction

The Gargoyles of il Duomo di Milano

by William Hawkins

Not much troubles the gargoyles of il Duomo di Milano. They feel neither rain nor wind nor the scratch of lichen. They jut into space blind and deaf. Though I have heard they do know the sun, as even light can enter stone.   Continue reading

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction

Axe-Throwing with Seniors

by J. T. Townley

Most of us can barely lift the axes, much less fling them at the target. Not only do we miss the bullseye, most of our throws clatter to the floor. Any blades that sink into the wood, even well outside those concentric circles, send us into conniptions of artificial joy and feigned delight.

Whose bright idea was this?  Continue reading

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction

In Accordance With

by Mandira Pattnaik

When you feel neglected, you should devour your husband instead of starving yourself, instead of wondering what ruins you haunt: says mother when I tell her about a slap, a chipped tooth, about brothers-in-law ogling, about mysterious cold beef and fermented rice beer in the husband’s bag, Continue reading

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction

On the Shore of the Apocalypse

by Megan O’Laughlin

One of these days, I will find a dead body on this beach. It’s written in the stars, or at least in so many true crime stories: woman walking dog finds dead body on neighborhood beach.

Every morning I walk the new puppy to our small neighborhood shore where he sniffs seaweed while I hunt for sea-glass. I walk because I’m tired and my depletion comes from something that has a lot of terms: secondary trauma, compassion fatigue, vicarious trauma, all terms for various forms of caregiver exhaustion, definitions for intense weariness.  I used to believe such symptoms indicate how I’ve given too much, but perhaps it means that the needs outweigh any possible gifts.   Continue reading

Leave a comment

Filed under Nonfiction