Fiction

Murmuration

She left a little at a time. The way the starlings do, lifting from a line off into nowhere, one by one until they’re gone completely. First was the index finger on her right hand. She was numb from sugar, so she didn’t notice when it started to cook. That smell that…

Last Light

The house had the appearance of a French villa but it was here in the middle of Ohio. Icicles hung from its eaves and the beige brick was bright against the snow, which had melted and then frozen again, forming a crust that Edward’s boots sank into once he stepped…

Gone to Water

God didn’t give us no lakes in Canard County. Too much downhill, too much push to the water. So when the government decided we could use some help, they dammed up our rivers and they made us lakes. Had us make them. The people I come from were good enough…

Junebug

From the kitchen window I can see two little girls lying in my yard like small sacks of brightly-dressed potatoes. My daughter June is walking among them, followed by another girl struggling with my wheelbarrow. June is draping one prone girl with a sheet, my good sheets, given to us…

What Lies on the Mind

The fog rose off the lake like puffs of smoke blown into the atmosphere. Heavy drops beat down the humidity that tried to creep up from the soil. It didn’t have much of a fighting chance. Autumn gave up on its lie of better days to come with each dying leaf. The…

Mary Yoder, Walking

I think of Mary Yoder standing just outside the kitchen door, one foot holding it open, swatting mosquitos in the white flood light. She smoked a cigarette like it was delicious. Her waist-length hair was tied back in a tight ponytail and then braided—she hadn’t figured that part out yet.…

Stalking the White Deer

Dalton stalked the white deer. It became his obsession, like finding that thing and owning it in a hard, bloody way would fill a hole neither of us could name. We were newly married then and him just back from the war. He’d been home about a year, but it…

Still Life in Townsend

1. Stevie Gibson never did like the picture, but she never did take it down. A dead pheasant still fully feathered, a bowl of oranges, a green glass goblet of wine, and an hourglass were arranged upon a pale tablecloth of folds and wrinkles, all against a shadowed background. She…