"Nothing, But" Published Today

Hello friends, 

My story "Nothing, But" published today at The Ekphrastic Review. You may access it at: 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/nothing-but-by-loretta-lynne-finan

I will add it here after a few weeks. 

Upcoming Story in The Ekphrastic Review

Original Painting by Aurailieus

My story, "Nothing, But",  inspired by the painting above, will be published July 5, 2023 by The Ekphrastic Review. 

I will post the link here. Meanwhile, feel free to peruse my small offering of short stories.

Loving Her Was a One-Sided Affair

Alison had been a singer, stand-up comic, writer, marketing executive, waitress. Owing to her limited success with each, she said to Jami, “Why not be a dancer?” Jami, whose heart went ass over teakettle every time Alison glided into her studio, led her along the garden path knowing this rhythmless girl could never dance. Knowing the same girl could never love another girl. Knowing, she broke her own heart. 

Originally published May, 20, 2023, 

Paragraph Planet 

http://www.paragraphplanet.com

Photo by Maria Oswalt on Unsplash

Nuclear

 Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

"They all have nukes pointed at each other,” Marcus says. “Their fingers are literally on the buttons.”

I doubt he means literally.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“You should...at least...know.” Mortal terror amplifies Marcus’ habitual verbal emphases.

“Why?” I brewed an aromatic Sumatra blend this morning, and I’m thoroughly enjoying my first cup.

He stomps into his office, where cable news spins an infinite loop of fear and loathing. Passing Marcus' door, I glimpse a newsreader weeping into his hands. It seems he meant literally. I resist the urge to linger. Who needs perpetual narration of the sky falling on a tilt-o-whirl world over which the carnies have lost control? 

In the living room, I open the blinds wide and cuddle under a woven blanket thinking coffee has never smelled or tasted so fine. Not even at that claustrophobic café in Tapachula where we breakfasted every morning for two years until pandemic terror ruined every aspect of everything everywhere. I miss Chiapas for a while, then go for another cup. Marcus comes in and pouts while I pour, but he offers me what’s left of the cream. I skip it. Best to let the perfect things be.

I’m headed to the couch when he says, “We could see the flash any minute, you know.” 

“For a nanosecond,” I say, not looking back. “Then we’ll be dead.”

He slams his door.

Is he mad at me or the bombs or the fingers on the buttons?

Cross-legged on the sofa, I cradle my mug in both hands and stare out the window, secretly hoping for the long-dreaded flash, wanting to share it with Marcus. I want us to be that alone together—like we were in Tapachula before we made friends and acquired enough Spanish to stumble through a daily routine. I want to whisper, Te amo. To touch lips as we melt down to our molecules.

The television goes off, and Marcus comes out. He sits close to me, long arms crossed between his knees.

“The coffee is spectacular,” he says.

“I know,” I say, and he smiles.

“Taking a break?” I put my cup on the table.

“Mental health day,” he says, his voice in splinters.

I rest my shoulder against his arm. He kisses my fingers and folds them under his. We wait in silence, holding hands and looking out the window, dangling in time.

Bachelorette

Photo by Mpho Mojapelo on Unsplash

“I love you so much it hurts.” Dad sounded like a child desperate to get adopted. He yanked on my long hair; I fell into his denim work shirt. It reeked of redwood sawdust, sour mash and bargain women. My breath ran out through his shirtsleeve, and he squeezed harder, demanding love without reciprocity save his mouthing of it. 

Mom, having failed to love him thusly, lay unmoving on the kitchen floor. 

I escaped when the ambulance arrived. 

In the living room, Oprah told an applauding television audience, ”Love is a verb."  I thought she said "word". Year after year I went on thinking she’d said "word".

Lupus: A Haiku

Five pills for lupus. 

Seven counteract five, then 

five undo seven.

Photo by Myriam Zilles on Unsplash

Egg, Chicken, Egg

 

She wants to open a window. To hear the crickets. She wants to feel the evening cool. Smell the rain coming and going.

She’s dying; she doesn’t think it’s a hell of a lot to ask.

There is music in the other room and someone is cooking. She hopes it’s her daughter making chicken soup with barley and carrots. Maybe some potatoes, too. Russets, though. Not those skinny purple things that turn the broth gray.

***

“For you to live, something has to die,” this from her grandfather as he handed over her favorite hen, the one that laid the blue speckled eggs. “Do it fast,” he said, helping her stretch the bird’s neck over a tree stump far from the chicken coop. “Don’t make her suffer.” The hatchet, which had looked small in his hand, felt enormous in her own.

With one whack, she took its head. Its body wriggled free from her grandfather and went careening around the yard, thick strings of blood spurting from its neck. She dropped the severed head and hatchet in the sticky dirt.

Finally, the hen collapsed.

Her grandfather finished bleeding it over a bucket, “Take it in to Grandma.”

A giant pot of boiling water waited in the kitchen. Her grandmother dropped the bird into the pot for a minute, then plopped it into the chipped porcelain sink. “Here,” she pulled up a step stool and they began to pull feathers.

When the bird was bare, her grandmother pushed back her tear-matted hair. “Wash your face and do the carrots,” she said. “We’ll let Grandpa gut this one.”

There would be no blue speckled eggs to collect in the morning, but tonight there would be roasted chicken with carrots and potatoes from the garden and maybe even cornbread.

Tomorrow she and Grandma would make stock for her favorite soup.

***

Her daughter comes in with a tray.

She asks her to open the window.

“It’s raining,” her daughter places the tray over her lap. “You’ll catch your death.”

Her death has already caught her, but saying so would only antagonize her daughter. She tries begging. Can’t she open it just a crack? For a little while?

“Fine,” her daughter lifts the window about an inch. “Until you finish your soup.”

In the soup are the things that had to die so she could live today.

Soon she will go into the ground--unembalmed if her wishes are observed. Her body will feed creatures who will die to feed other creatures and so on. She sips, liking the thought.

Aromatic steam rises in the cooling air.

She wonders if her daughter would mind looking for some blue speckled eggs at that farmer’s market she visits every weekend.

Or if that would be a hell of a lot to ask.

 

 

Originally published at Medium.com.
Photo credit: Natalie Rhea on Unsplash