It was only seven-fifty. The yard was still empty. Donna buttoned up her coat and pulled on her beanie. She passed through the gate and shuffled toward the garden, the contents of her watering can splashing onto the granitic sand beneath her sneakers. Donna’s “garden” was little more than two flowerbeds in the yard’s northwestContinue reading “Pruning.”
Tag Archives: Short Story
The Last Laugh.
I lift my head from the barn’s straw-covered floor. A muddy pair of boots step around my goats, and the suit of bells rattles down upon the ground. ‘The king wants his jester.’ I don’t say a word; they took my tongue many years ago. I simply undress and pull on my second skin. TheContinue reading “The Last Laugh.”
Wallflower.
I’d never imagined living in an attic. Frank was the only one to come up here – twice a year to fetch and return the Christmas lights. Like everything else, he stopped doing that the year I died. Frank simply sunk deeper into his couch, unable to hear or see me, irrespective of how manyContinue reading “Wallflower.”
Matthew S. Wilson 