Creative writing
It Happened Some Years Ago
Last Leaves Magazine, Issue 8, May 2024
It was a wet spring morning in
April—there was melted snow—
when I boarded a train in
Rochester, I remember
the carriages were empty. I sat
by the window. “Last call,” boomed
the conductor. The PA system crackled.
“All aboard the train to Boston.”
Wheels screeched beneath
me, bells rang sharp. We rolled
forward, the countryside shrouded
by glass.
We passed yellow hills dotted
with tan calves, ponds, and
maple trees— with spiles that held
white buckets—budding wildflowers,
abandoned plows. I saw
wind whirl through milkweeds and
push a vacant swing. Then came
the smog,
a wisp at first, which
turned to clouds, which turned
to muddy haze that
dirtied the terrain.
We passed trees with
discolored leaves, and piss-colored
grass. Soot-stained concrete and
buildings abandoned en masse.
Planes rumbled overhead, and I
wished for untamed rains to wash
the landscape’s stains. I wished for
a time gone past.
LEWIS
Icarus, Vol. 74, No. 1, November 2023
Eight months old, round
like a roly poly. Lew has
milk skin, soft as rabbit fur. A smile that's all gum and charm. His laugh is a squeak when I cradle him in
the bend of my arm.
He's a mold, in which you
poured your bone and blood.
I remember ten years
prior. We spent frozen afternoons in
your kitchen. Our red-chilled hands held
steaming coffee cups etched with
elephants and narwhals in pastel hews. We stacked marshmallows and hershey bars on
graham crackers, confided our secrets and
dreams of what we hoped would be.
You wanted a garden with
golden daffodils and to raise
hens who'd lay eggs. I wanted a license and open roads with nowhere to be, and
everywhere to go.
We took two divergent forks in the road.
Now, a first-time
mom. Your eyes linger
on your son. You kiss Lew's plump, potato cheeks. We sit in a different kitchen. Sip glasses of bitter wine that dries our tongues in the orange glow of the
fading afternoon.
Catch and Release
New Square, Vol. 4, No. 1, December 2021
Maddie leans against the steel post. She stands in shadow, and the light from the street lamp pools in front of her. If she extends her fingertips out, she might touch the rose-tinted glow. She flexes her hands but stuffs them back into her pockets.
It is humid, and the wet air causes Maddie’s hair to swell into a triangular poof. She tries to flatten the mass with her palms but soon abandons that in favor of a braid. The street lamps hum, and there are muffled shouts coming from a nearby house.
Maddie pulls out her phone from the pocket of her gym shorts and taps the screen. No new notifications. She opens Instagram, types “Finn Evans'' in the search bar, and selects the first search option. Square photos populate the screen, and she clicks on the first image to enlarge it.
A man, in his late twenties, with sand-colored hair leans over the bar to whisper something into a woman’s ear. Maddie doesn’t recognize the woman; her face is round, and soft, with wispy bangs that frame her forehead. The man’s lips nearly brush the woman’s cheek. Maddie shifts her head from side to side, until she hears the joints in her neck pop. Then, she slips her phone back into her pocket.
A dog barks, and metal garbage cans rattle as something small rummages for crumbs. Maddie straightens to leave, when she sees a man stumbling up the street. His shirt is rumpled— stained with sweat— and dirt smears the front of his jeans. Finn Evans wears a big smile stamped on his face, all teeth.
He looks lost, but is not; he is drunk, again. Finn shuffles toward her, but stops at the playground to curse the monkey bars, where he broke his elbow as a kid, swinging from bar to bar. Maddie walks down the sidewalk to meet him— her flip flops slap loudly on the concrete. Finn steps forward and trips over his shoe.
She kneels down in front of him. You okay?
He looks at her; his lips part and brows wrinkle. Whadda, are you, you doin’, here, each syllable is slow and drawn out. Finn smiles then, and tugs Maddie into his arms. Her hair smells like hibiscus and honey. He ruffles the top of her braid.
Maddie swats his hand away. You didn’t give me much choice.
He called her again, but he didn’t remember again.
She wriggles out from his arms and looks up at his face. His head flops from side-to-side, like a rag doll. Maddie takes his hands, examining his palms. They are large and covered in cuts and blood. Small pieces of stone are lodged in the scratches. Maddie returns his hands and pulls him to his feet.
Let’s clean these off. She brushes the dirt from his shirt and holds his face in her palms. Glazed green eyes, like sea glass, stare past her. She turns his head from side to side.
It hurts, he says.
I know. She drops her hands and steps back. Let’s go.
Finn doesn’t move. He rocks back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe. Maddie offers him her hand, and he smacks it away.
Please, she says. I want to go home. She holds out her hand again. This time he takes it. His hand is warm and sticky in her palm.
Later, they lie in bed together. Finn traces the curve of Maddie’s lips with his fingertips. His breath smells of whiskey and cigarettes. He shifts, so that he is lying on top of her. She doesn’t want to, but she is tired. Maddie lets him pull down her boxer shorts. As she waits for him to finish, she hears the cicadas outside her window. They are like a symphony of maracas shaking in the night.
Finn is out cold, and she watches him breathe. He looks cherubic. His mouth hangs slightly open, and his cheeks are plump with sleep. Thick lashes brush the skin under his eyes, and a tangle of hair haloes his face. He is unfamiliar like this, serene.
Maddie stretches. The clock on the bedside table flashes, 00:45 a.m. She can’t sleep, and so she gets out of bed and pulls on an oversized shirt and her flannel shorts. The tiles are cold under her feet as she pads into the kitchen.
Where moonlight pours into the room, a table and chairs crowd the space. Appliances and cabinetry line the left wall; hanging planters decorate the right. Maddie takes the kettle from the countertop, fills it with water, and clicks on the gas. The water bubbles. She brews a cup of tea and waits for it to steep.
The bed creaks from her room. She slips on a pair of sandals and opens the sliding glass doors that lead onto the back deck. The air is cooler, and a breeze makes Maddie shiver; goose flesh springs up from her skin. She sits in a chair by the fire pit, which is warm and glowing from earlier in the evening. Wood snaps and embers fall like snow.
From where she sits, Maddie sees the dogwood tree in the yard’s center. The white bracts that blossom in spring are gone, and glossy, green leaves grow in their place. Soon, crimson berries will ripen then fall from the branches’ tips. Gold specks flicker in and out of existence around the tree. The summer’s last fireflies. Maddie watches as they twinkle, one by one, flying farther and farther away.