Fiction

Fran looks to her people, then back to the watermelon. Slowly, as their faces and bellies recover, she brings the microphone up to her mouth.

I decide to build a county fair in my back yard, so I go to Lowe’s and buy a hammer, some nails, and a plastic children’s pool for the dunk tank.

Stephen had been meaning to write more, but most days after work it just seemed a lot easier to watch re-runs of Pretty Little Liars on HBO Max.

From her sick chair near her bedroom window on the second floor, she could look down on the devastation but do nothing.

Grief, securing its furthest reach, may enclose someone as completely as a mother encloses a fetus.

I looked up and saw these black smudges all over the roof. First I thought it was mud or leaves or both, but then I noticed the feathers.

Lex had asked the question so many times it had become rote, yet today she yearned to know the answer. She couldn’t explain why.

I was a mother and now I am only someone who was one, who no longer knows who she is and what she is, if she can no longer be that.

This is the shape of the world. The world is demanding, but it is kind. The world asks that you walk into the forest...