Note: The following was a submission for Round 9 of the NPR Three-Minute Fiction Contest, with the topic…
Air crisps. Leaves fall. Frost creeps underfoot. Change comes. The world moves on, following its path. We shut ourselves in until the light lingers and the sun kisses our skin.…
Autumn, and the warm light of morning finds her here, remembering the time. Come read to me, Kathryne. Tell me what the pictures say. She finds the nest of her…
There’s no rush, she said. The older woman rebent her knees, her elbows. Eased back into the chair, reluctant. It held her with regret. The table offered aloft her cup…
He comes here to forget. To make a raft of his worries and set it adrift. The fog will envelope them, dissolve their molecules into heavy air, and offer them…
She stands there, just beyond view. Just beyond the reach of the world she observes from her window. She creates the lives she sees pass by. The mother with child.…
Where the deer slept in tall grass this morning. Where the stars shone deep in the night sky. Where the cart rolled by an hour ago. What was here is…
A moment here and I am new again. A moment to let the day reach inside, to write its script on my memory. I will remember the poetry the sparrow…
A woman will come here. She will walk through the eucalyptus, the fragrance pulling memories like taffy, long and thick. She will sit on the swing’s softened wood, rope easing…
A kingdom rose here. Men emerged from the wood, kicking flanks, riding pure muscle. They drove their horses toward battle, over the hill, over the fallen. The clash of forged…
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