Stories related to domestic


Your face on my wall. Eternal in clear, icy crystal. July was when I took it. Did your sister in September. Taxidermist brings her tomorrow.


The cigarette burn scars on his arm screamed “I hate you, Dad!” The tears on his cheeks as he touched the casket offered a rebuttal.


She visited his hidden grave every year at this time to lay flowers. Always cautious that no one followed, as officially he’s only missing.

Bad Trip

He took her away on his new boat, gleaming with polished wood and leather. She came back alone, smelling of saltwater and bleach.


In February he blamed the ice, in April his boat, in June the lake. Then his back, then his car, then his job, then his time. Then she knew.

A Writer’s Wife

She didn’t cry till she saw the obituary. It was as dry as a bone. No plot twist, no climax or character depth. She knew he’d have hated it.