“I’m not going to their house,” Chloe said. “I don’t want to see them.” “But they’re your grandparents, sweetie,” Mama said, looking up from the okra she was slicing into little pieces. Chloe stood by the sink, facing her mother. Her hair was styled in a pixie cut, and she was wearing overalls and low-cut... Continue Reading →
I still search on the bookshelf as if retrieving a lost child, a missing parent with just the right spell. How grateful I am you are still standing, though I might find you elsewhere, on some screen. I long to see your face and feel your spine, some proof that all my fermented sorrows have... Continue Reading →
After seventy-three rejections, one for each day of summer gone by, I know what the phrase means— the absence of a human voice. But to me it’s as comforting as a Philip Glass movement, as maddening as the cricket that keeps my seven-year-old awake, hidden in the rose bush, giving us nothing but unanswered envy.
A short story by Harold Whit Williams.
