Short Stories

Her Phantom Fingers Her phantom fingers find me —sometimes — in the maudlin morning, periwinkle ribbons sweeping the tops of the woods below my window, and — perhaps — she…

It should matter not that the sofa pillows are askew, the lawn mower lines run wonky, that my fingernails need trimmed, that I’m awake at 7:26 and must wait until…

     The children popped out of their grandparents’ Nash like champagne corks with energy bottled up during the long, arduous ride. Great Aunt Millie stood on the front porch steps…

     He texted, “TMR?”      An upturned thumb emoji came back immediately.      “845?”      “Sure.”      He sent a disturbing ghost, a skull, and a knife.      The next…