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Lines Left

Fractured Lit 2024 Flash Fiction Open Finalist

My dad mowed the lawn every Saturday morning—weather permitting—for seventy-two years. Vacations were scheduled around it, plans turned down, brunches skipped, because that lawn wasn’t gonna mow itself. When his heart started acting up and I said maybe he could think
about getting someone else to do it, maybe he could take a break, enjoy retirement, he looked at me like I’d suggested he take a bath with some morays, just for the thrill.

So, in retrospect, I don’t know why I expected death to be the thing that stopped him. [Read the full story here.]

Shrinking

Published in MetaStellar, March 2025

The house is smaller than I remember, again. Dad stoops as he comes through the door from the hallway into the kitchen. The ceiling brushes the top of Mom’s head as she stirs the pot on the stove, the hairs that have come loose from her bun swaying and stretching, static energy pulling them up to touch the plaster. My boots hang over the edge of the rubber mat by the door when I toe them off, dripping water onto the wood in puddles that spread, obscenely large against the miniaturizing grain. [Read the full story here.]