There was a boy who found a dead hummingbird next to a deflated mylar balloon.
The dank lake alcove is shellacked with lily pads. My legs tangle the underwater stems, submerging the pads where I swim, the water, lukewarm tea.
When I pulled away the hospital sheet, I asked Jared, “Do you like them?” and he whistled a long note, then rubbed his hands together.
They wore rings on their toes and billowing pajama pants that let their legs shine through when they walked circles around Episcopal churchyards during Sunday services.
One tiny insufficient winter, the whole world gradually blew away. Every minute, every hour, every day, a little bit – robin’s egg, paper plane, rogue pizza menu –was gone.
Tonight, as we walked back to our hostel in the little outskirt where we are staying, we saw a dog on the road, and beneath that dog we saw a second dog and beneath that second dog we saw the deep and unending darkness.
There are an unquantified number of stops. One knows a train is passing by the streak of warm light from its windows.
Imagine if I talked about it, if I let it loose when people ask after my day, he thinks, if I was true about any of it.
She left her little finger behind when she rushed out the door.
New South is proud to nominate the following pieces for Best Small Fictions 2017