Bachelor’s buttons, black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace and baby’s breath; my mother loved great swathes of riotous colors, threaded leaves, seed heads bent by hungry finches.
She never bothered with hybrid teas or careful chrysanthemums, boring rows of marigolds and petunias.
In tiny towns with manicured lawns and spindly evergreens, she filled beds with mounds of sticky, swollen peonies, let wild roses climb the windowsills.
When it was time, my mother gathered buckets and tubs, cardboard boxes lined with black garbage bags. She dug it all up: flag iris, daylilies, coneflowers, bee balm, Sweet William, tickseed and feverfew.
While the truck filled with beds and chairs, foot stools, dishes, linens and books, blankets, clothes, curtains and dolls; she filled the station wagon with her flowers, covered with damp newspapers and rags.…
Amelie Brashar reposed on the wooden floor. Her bloodless
complexion, and the hair sprawled messily around her head both gave the
impression that she lay in the thralls of death, but Amelie was only taking a
nap. If Mrs. Brashar had been in, she would’ve tutted at the place her child
had chosen to rest, but Mrs. Brashar never did seem to be in. This was not due
to some great recent tragedy, but rather to an infatuation Amelie’s mother
seemed to have developed for wide open streets and adult conversation. It was
rumored that when Amelie’s father left, Mrs. Brashar had first cursed him, then
slunk away to unpack her own suitcase.
With a small sigh, Amelie finally awoke from her catnap. She
looked surprised to find herself on the floor.…
Jeremy
gazed down at the shapely pale nude woman on the queen bed, her eyes closed,
and her long auburn hair spread about on the flowered pillowcase like a Playboy
centerfold. What’s going on, he
wondered. Just yesterday he and his wife
had fought about the two of them not having sex and here she was stark naked
before him, rather than fast asleep in her usual overlarge white t-shirt that
hung far below her plain white cotton panties.
“So, are you trying to tell me something?” Jeremy asked, with a slight smirk on his face.
Catherine, his wife of 14 years, opened her eyes and with a blank bland expression said, “No, I’m just hot. It’s hot tonight.”
“I see,” he responded, as he stormed out of the bedroom and bolted back downstairs in such a rage that to have remained would have meant an involuntary manslaughter or temporary insanity plea in court.…
Your vision is
unfocused, voices and faces distorted, as though you’re watching from beneath
an ocean wave. The surface is in sight, but you’re weighed down with legs like
lead and distracted by your own ceaseless, ticking heart.
Somewhere below,
detached and drifting, you bear witness for the girl with defiant eyes. Your
father paces, turns, scrubs a hand over his face. The air goes quiet. He
demands you stop this, start acting normal again, allow them all to return to
normal. The order is that vague and that explicit. It leaves no room for
maneuvering, and just enough space for crossfire.
The sound of your
mother crying jolts you back into your body, makes you wince. There is nothing
you can say to them to explain yourself.…
Alle C. Hall’s work appears most recently in Dale Peck’s Evergreen Review, as well as in Tupelo Quarterly, Creative Nonfiction Magazine, Brevity (blog), and Literary Orphans. She is Associate Editor at Vestal Review and former Senior Nonfiction Editor for JMWW Journal. “Wins” include: a Best of the Net nomination; First Place in The Richard Hugo House New Works Competition; and finalist or semi-finalist in the contests of Boulevard Magazine, Creative Nonfiction Magazine, Hippocampus, and Memoir Magazine.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Hall about her experiences as a journal editor, her experiences shopping around her book, whether or not the current pandemic will help or hurt the eradication of hatred, toxic masculinity, and much more!…
