BAITED HOOK, FLYING

The boy’s spine curled forward, similar to a shaved orange peel, though he clearly wasn’t an orange.

NO GOING BACK

She wanted to say something, the truth preferably, but all her words stuck in her mouth, hung up on her tongue, forever secured and tethered to going nowhere.

THE LOSING SIDE OF THINGS

Cora Nichols slumped in a burgundy-colored sofa, her arms a shield of defiance at her chest, and glared at her family. She’d a mind to go over and slap each and everyone, show them what grieving a loved one truly looked like. Even the funeral director had more sense, somber and quiet, standing at the front doors, welcoming those that entered.

SELF-STRIPING

Julia lounged on a lime-green couch with white pillows embroidered with tiny pink flowers. She hummed and knitted. Her self-striping hat was coming along nicely. She was pleased and figured she’d have it done in time for Christmas.

A VISIT FROM STRANGERS

An older woman, with graying hair at her temples, hands me a cup of coffee. “Let it cool. It’s still too hot,” the woman says. I don’t know who she is, but I’m not going to listen to the likes of her. I take a sip and burn my tongue. Maybe the strange woman was right.

PIERCING AND WICKED

Once again, I was alone with the dead woman.

COMING TOGETHER AGAIN

Rain pelts the ground, driving river streaks down my face and neck and chills my bones; my thin wool jacket soaks through. I should hurry home, but my feet stay leaden on the mountain road—another couple of miles to go.

DAFFODIL’S LOST VIGIL

She sat on the couch, cigarette between her index and middle fingers, her long, bare legs crossed, and wrote. Smoke filled her lungs, then the living room as she exhaled.