Her House


The entrance hall hasn’t been used since Doug was killed in Vietnam, the boxes that crowd the narrow space crammed with paper and old clothes and God knows what else.

In the kitchen, four refrigerators, two so overstuffed that the doors are bungeed closed, cereal boxes, rotten fruit, stale Walmart muffins in the 30-pack, gallons of milk swollen like basketballs, the expiration dates two years ago.

As you go into the house it only gets worse–narrow passages between heaps of paper, boxes of broken toys, desks bursting with notebooks full of illegible handwriting.

The curtains are always closed.

Friday Fictioneers


This story is a fragment inspired by a much larger piece you can read here. There’s also another connected story. Message me if you’re interested.


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  1. Joy Pixley

    Yes, very vivid — the sights and the smells, and the incredibly sad implication of what’s happened to this woman in her depression and grief. And even worse, that it’s gone on for so long, and that nobody seems to be there or be able to help her. Excellent piece.

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