Stories

Clyde trembled as the import of the message became clear, sliding by the mental callus of disappointment and chagrin that had formed over the long years of trying and trying again. All of his countless rejections and few and far-between acceptances had also been via emails. Sorry but no. Close but not quite right. Strong and accomplished, but not for us—pass. And sometimes, very, very now and then: Congratulations, perfect for our autumn issue. . . .

“Tell me what it looks like, Daddy.”  Kimmy’s hand fits inside my own like a photo in a locket, as if both were made for the sole purpose of being intertwined. We’re five hundred feet above ground, the evening air warm and thick, our eyes level with the setting sun as our carriage on the Ferris wheel rises toward its apex, the climb before the inevitable descent. “The treetops are like broccoli crowns,” I say, and Kimmy shrivels her nose and sticks out her tongue.

When, yet again, the Banshee of Porish fails to scream my name—has any woman ever, ever waited so long to be with child?—I tell Josh I want a pet.  “I had a beagle as a kid,” he says.  I want a demon.  Josh spins his wedding ring. “How about a budgie, Morag?” In The Book of Cryptids for Every Fear and Worry, I behold the Chup

Wonderland is the road that cuts through everything—each concession, each bisection of cornfield by perpendicular dirt road. Behind the cornfields and at the far reaches of what one can see off of Wonderland are stretches of dense woods framing the bottom of the sky, and in those dense woods are purple pitcher plants—turtle socks—big enough to eat salamanders. I used to wonder what lay at the end of the long stretch of powerlines along Wonderland.