Author: Hannah (page 5 of 9)

Precipice

The blood moon sat. “Sitting” really is the best way to describe it. “Hung”, “draped”, and “peered” all imply a sort of grace that wasn’t there. It looked like a fist of clay plopped twenty stories off the ground. We had gotten up at three AM to watch it from the cemetery a few blocks away during October of 2014, when the valley was particularly black. Continue reading

Seven Things

My little sister finished high school and I did not plan on attending the graduation. Our massive Charlotte school holds its dreary ceremonies in the Hornets stadium, and I was not about to take off work to drive four hours and stare at a wall of kelly green mortarboards. But when she personally requested that I be there, I gave in. Continue reading

The Summerfest Volume

Saturday

“The red one,” my friend said. I removed the red flower from the pack of synthetic leis and clipped it to the back of Orion’s collar. He circled a few times in an effort to see what it was, then settled on the couch. Summerfest was happening outside our door, and the apartment had planned a front yard party. Continue reading

Fueling the Circus

I don’t know anything. I don’t mind admitting that, but I have a problem meaning it. I like to think I know at least some things; how to tie a shoe or write a poem, for example. But then I remember how small I am. There’s a video somewhere of people ages 5 to 99 giving advice in chronological order. It starts adorably, then deepens, then grows sweet and morbid. It ends with a 99-year-old man staring directly into the camera. Continue reading

Ichthyologist

for Mom, the fearless creator

Olivia walked up the spine where w­aves met sand and wished the grains under her toenails were words. She would go home, swing her legs over her desk, and shake the syllables on to paper. She hadn’t written in three months.

For her entire memory, people had loved Olivia’s writing. Teachers’ compliments extended across her history like boxcars. She pictured her career cutting over purple plains where stories sprinted along the tracks before heaving themselves in. Olivia knew she was good. Good and frozen. Continue reading

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