Tag Archives: short story

Busbench

“The boy on the bench,” he says softly.
“You never told me about him.”

His voice says everything he refuses to.
Tension coils in the static.
He waits, feigning patience, as I let implications take the weight of any words I could expel.

“He wanted to be there,” I say, shrugging.
“You didn’t.”

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Spilled milk

“Sit up.” Mom says.

She gets up and stands behind Sissy’s chair. Sissy’s hair is always in her food. Mom uses her fingers and combs it back into a ponytail. She sits back down.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“John, at work, got the first deer of the season.” Dad says. He shovels more potatoes into his mouth and Mom nods.

“That’s good. He didn’t get anything last year—right?” she says.

I look down at Sissy’s hand and slide mine towards hers. She starts eating the chicken, and I pull one of her fingers.

She smiles.

“Yeah,” Dad says, “at least this year they can fill their freezer.”

She reaches over and flicks my thumb.

“Mhmm, I can’t believe how bad things were—“

I squeeze her pinky finger and she starts giggling.

Mom looks over at us.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“Shhhh! Eat your dinner. Dad and I are talking.”

We look down, still trying not to laugh. Sissy sticks her fork in another piece of chicken.

“Anyway, it looks like things are getting better for them.”

“Yeah, yeah. Seems like it is.”

Mom and Dad keep talking. I slide my foot next to Sissy’s chair leg.

Continue reading Spilled milk

Fog baby

The bus smells.

It smells bad every day, but today the boys in the back made it worse.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

I can’t tell, but it smells just like dad when he comes back from standing behind the shed. It burns my nose and my throat when he walks by.

Mom hates when he smells like that.

I swing my feet, writing my name in the fog on the window. The bus goes over bumps and makes my writing messy. I wipe all the broken letters away and wait for it to fog up again.

A boy comes up the center aisle and sits across from me. He’s a lot older than me and he’s looking at me like my Dad does. He’s looking at me like there’s something evil in his brain. Continue reading Fog baby