It’s that part of the summer right before the heat gets too much. My cotton dress is translucent with sweat, clinging to my skin. The deckchair smells faintly like sun-cream and the afternoon sun is burning sunset shades and disks behind my eyelids. Mike is coming home. Michael. I smile and squint up at the … Continue reading Rehab
Category: Short Fiction
The Bells of St. Ann
'God has forsaken us. There is nothing here but ruins and mad men. My father blamed the slaves. I know it is us; God has turned away from us in shame.' This is a really early piece from my first year of undergrad creative writing.
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I was Isabella Linton
“Well come on then. This is what you wanted isn’t it? Take off your dress.” We stood in the chapel in front of one slatternly miner’s wife and the vicar, he in his finery, me hooded and cloaked, trembling at my own audacity. “With this ring I thee wed.” He said, forcing it over my … Continue reading I was Isabella Linton
The Haphazard Writer's Journal 