Fiction

Every winter, Mrs. Botho Kennekae’s husband took time off from his driving job in the city and spent three weeks at the cattlepost, where he did whatever men did there—presumably offer the softness they withheld from everyone to their cattle, for the cattle were the great loves of their lives: so beloved the men called…

I wriggle my tights up my legs, feel them squeeze at my thighs and bite at my waist. They’re a size too small but my sole pair without a run. My whole body feels sour, all tight and tucked into Capezio. I’d much rather be wearing the loose pants and draping tops of my New…

When my mother’s urinary tract infection slips into her blood, she calls and asks me to come home to help with Haley’s baby. “What about the father?” I say. “Can’t he take it?” “He’s indisposed.” “What about the father’s parents?” “What are you doing that’s so important?” she says. “Begging?” My sister died a few…

Daniel’s mother was only fifteen years older than him, and a few weeks after he was born, she turned into a salamander and padded away on stealthy, gummy feet. That’s what Nan told him, anyway. Each spring, he’d watch the salamanders pour over the road in front of the house on their way to the…

The Lawrences were so scared of their father that none of them screamed when he parked their Volvo on the track between Kidlington and Yarnton. He drove like an idiot—everyone knew that. He was so cruel when any of the children dared cry out at a bend taken too fast that they sat stoic and…

I forget, for a moment, that I am not home. The dormitory is still dark, very dark, but I can see small particles of light stealing into the window gauze. It deceives me for a brief moment because that is exactly how Mma’s house is: the windows have tiny-tiny squares, and sometimes in the morning,…

Every summer, we met up in a different city where one of our families lived. San Diego, Minneapolis, Camden, Pittsburgh. Other than a brief excursion to a butterfly garden or beach, every trip was essentially the same—hotel breakfasts with stainless steel coffee dispensers and plastic canisters of Cheerios and Fruit Loops; hours in a dimly-lit…

She was from a town you would never pronounce right if you read it from a highway sign. You’d have to spend time there, or know somebody who called it home. Her angled bangs fell to her brow, framing a stare that conjured gemstones and tundras. Laron nearly died when he heard she smoked Newports….

i. I always buy the charcoal pencils separately, instead of the kit, so they know I’m not an artist. Today, one hard 6B. Plus, a cone of ice cream that stinks of stevia and a pack of tampons. The clock’s at five to midnight, cheap light pooling around the space where the cashier should’ve been….