“Close your eyes,” he says, leading her by the hand into his workshop. Running short of things to transform he has turned to The Chair. It’s the only thing she kept from her father’s house, and where she went to cry, barricaded by boxes in the corner of the spare room. The leather, with its … More Her Father Never Liked Him
In the sun the woman swallows her pride and her Zoloft, then wipes bottoms and packs snacks with her best of expressions. She doesn’t forget the sunscreen. The van stops at a red light and the woman sees a woman hopping onto the train to the city. The woman looks at the woman, confused, with … More The Other Womans
Small irritations. Dishwashers left unloaded or loaded incorrectly. Milk left out and empty cartons returned to the fridge. Tops off toothpaste tubes squeezed in the middle. Used teabags staining the surface next to the sink. Loose change in the fruit bowl and apples in the biscuit cupboard. Favorite phrases setting teeth on edge. Socks on … More Expect Some Shrinkage in the First Year
Nellie’s boots had settled into a rhythmic gravel crunch when the air stopped dead, chirps silenced, birds vanished. She peered at the greening sky—hadn’t it just been washed-up blue?—and weighed her chances of making it back to the storm cellar, her husband. One kind of safety. A chunk of hail slit her twice-scarred cheek. She … More One Kind of Safety
The father sits, himself furniture. The dog on the floor pops head-up, smells the smell of danger as only dogs can do. The mother, a mattress up in the bedroom. The roof with its shingles, the edges lifting in the building-up wind. Two brothers in the den, divvying up their toys. The soldiers can live … More Before the Hurricane
Coming home that night, the sunlight outside. The burn of an overcooked chicken. My sister a seed in my mother’s belly. The flowers wilting in the hall. The hint of another woman’s perfume. My mother motioning to the rent check on the dining room table. My father giving me a dollar to go to the … More My Father, Leaving
He leaves and I move to a cheap motel. I look down from my balcony at the sad blue of the pool. A scatter of deck chairs blown in by an angry wind or another broken marriage. Pots of flowers lined up – what happened, they want to know. Layer of muck on the poolskin … More Learning to Swim Again
Blighted pink and white blossoms spread like a fungus under the bay window. The stone wall, not yet mended, holds us on a slant. Our daughter snuggles her head on your lap. Our baby boy nestles in my arms. Beside us the crepe myrtle is free of the wasp nest the future holds. We smile, … More Picture Perfect
“Are we in the forest, Mammy?” she said. “Why yes, we are, love.” “Aren’t there wolves in the forest?” she said. “None so fierce as the one we left behind, pet.” “Can I hold your hand, though, Mammy?” she said. “Of course you can, sweetie.” “Are we lost?” she said. “Not lost enough, my dear.” … More Better the Wolf You Don’t Than the Devil You Know
Daddy Robert says my grandparents are werewolves. He says I met them once after he and Daddy Marco brought me home. Says they snarled and snapped and sprayed spittle all over the paella Daddy Marco made for dinner. I was only little, but I think I remember their yellow eyes and red hats. How they … More Werewolves at the Door
The Centifictionist 