A baseball card with a typewriter on it

Phyllis moaned. “The first page,” she said finally, “and the last page. They’re already written.“ Ellie could see Lucy outside in her ruffle-bottom suit leaning into the spray of the lawn sprinkler with her hand out, cautiously testing the water. Ellie waited.

“And the rest?” Ellie asked. “The rest?” She needed to know.

There was a long pause. Lucy put her head down and charged.

“Love,” her mother said dreamily.

—Flesh Wounds

 

Short Stories

A typewriter  
Homeland Security
Homework tonight is to make a family fire escape plan. Draw or write about it. "Okay." I say. "Let's do it." I've got a sharpened pencil and a shoebox full of crayons.

First published, River Oak Review.


A typewriter   Sunday Service
He orders a cheeseburger, fries, and a Dr. Pepper. He spins on his stool a little. He’s got a wicked cowlick, a dirty Band-Aid on his elbow, something indecipherable written on the back of his hand in blue ink.

First published, Water~Stone.

     
A typewriter   Long-Distance Operator
I close my eyes and listened to Al Green. His voice sounded ethereal, not connected to any human being, just the sound of pure longing. I was tired of being alone, too.

First published, Cincinnati Review.