After the shipwreck had finally been pulled onto the beach, back in March, a salvage crew kept cutting up the crab boat’s hull and cockpit. The workers had shooed her off like a small girl, even though they must have seen the trash bags she carried full of the styrofoam, fiberglass, and plastic every new tide spat at the beach. If she wanted to play, they had scolded her, she could do so farther north, past where the creek emptied into the ocean. She’d kept silent through their tirades, maybe afraid of worse consequences; the beach was officially closed. The stink of leaked diesel clung to everything she touched. Yet she couldn’t stay home and kept coming back, filling bag after bag with rope, floats, and styrofoam.…
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What grace given as redemption
can this grace be now? she wonders,
walking past his corner again
in the glassy white glare of 6 o’clock,
seeing what little is left
of what he gave his life to.
This was a man who worked the same job
for twenty-seven years, fixing machines
made by other men, machines meant to break
from wear, from neglect, from war.
A man who worked in a concrete box
on the corner of Patterson and Main
in a soiled, quarter-sleeved jumpsuit,
washing away the work each night
back home – chassis grease, used gear oil,
human sweat.
He was a man who lived in ways people
couldn’t see, a “good” man, the neighbors said,
who only charged what he thought his work
was worth.…
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In all the horror movies I’ve ever seen, the haunted are powerless to the ghosts who do the haunting. Ghosts invariably arrive on their own terms: a quick flash of their reflection in the bathroom mirror when the victim wipes away steam; a vase that, unprovoked, falls to the floor and shatters at the living’s feet; a shiver that raises goosebumps all over a grieving lover’s body on the hottest day of the year; a disembodied moan outside a widow’s bedroom window on a windless night. So when my mother died after threatening to haunt me for eternity in her last voicemail message (which I immediately deleted) if I didn’t return her call, I expected to be haunted in all the usual ways and, knowing how creatively spiteful my mother was in life, in ways I could never imagine.…
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People claim to have been crushed by love.
I doubt it.
Alien compression most likely, pressed for time,
squeezed into a photo booth or lost
in the grip of gravity. I often contemplate
what 3 Gs might do to an unwary spine.
But I won’t take the fall, there’s still spring in my step.
Once on a field trip I gazed out the window
of a trans-galactic express and immense objects
appeared out of nowhere, threatening to demolish the ship.
I rubbed my lucky wart and secured safe passage
for saint and sinner alike. Go ahead
roll your eyes or roll the dice. Matters not.
When it’s your time to go well there you go.
Keep your eyes wide open amigos
you can be crushed by nearly everything.…
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The rustling sound and movement in the bushes alarmed him. When he had lain down in the darkness
before, it seemed that there was nothing in the nearby woods that would be a problem. Suddenly,
he felt that might not be the case. As he shaded his eyes from the bright, hot light above, he began to see
the creature stepping into the clearing where he had slept. Surprisingly, it looked like him, somewhat, but
was different in unfamiliar ways.
Its movements were graceful and determined, showing no signs of hesitation or fear, as the distance
between them grew smaller. New to this area, he had no real idea as to what to expect, but this … this
was both upsetting … and frightening. When the two creatures faced each other, its height nearly
the same as his, sudden moisture blossomed on his neck and hands, a rapid pounding in the
center of his body began and breath quickened as each approaching step brought them closer.…
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This story based on Stephen King’s prompt in his book “On Writing” comes with a 30-year delay.
Did she have an imaginary friend? Yes, she did. Nelly would say he was quite real, even if other people could not see him. His name was Sinbad like the cartoon character. He had huge dark eyes, tawny-brown skin, a turban and those funny pointy-toed shoes on his feet. Sinbad came to her house when her mother moved out. Her mother Jivka changed her name to Jane when she left for London. Sinbad kept calling her Jivka despite Nelly’s feeble protests. He had a thing about names – he used to call her Nell and he shortened her father Dickens’s name to Dick. Just that.
Nell liked the name Nell.…
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Sometimes I wonder if everyone doesn’t need someone to miss
A peg where they can hang that heartache hat
And its miles of clouds
Its volume of sleepless sadness.
You are the doorway through which my mourning passes.
We could not house happiness
But you remain safely in my heart
Winnowing the sadness.
– Jenny McBride…
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