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The Heart and the Hunger , Substack

Joy: Too much art, too little time.

Every once in a while I’m filled with overwhelming joy at the fact that there are so many books/movies/magazines/TV shows/songs/podcasts/pieces of art that we could spend our lives trying to take it all in. It’s a joy that I wish I carried every day, chasing down every creative moment while it’s here.

Fiction

  • “If She Survives” 1st Round Finalist, NYC Midnight 250-word Microfiction Challenge 2022

I found a silver bracelet in a dead girl’s bedroom, the last puddle in a trail of blood that ran through the ravaged neighborhood. I waited for audience cheers or instructions from the host to come through my earpiece, but there was only the buzz of empty airwaves and a soft, guttural laugh as a shadow slipped up the staircase behind me. It was dangerous to plunder the abandoned houses, but that was the point of the show.

“We’ll raise our scavenger’s prize to one million dollars,” the host said, “if she survives the Growling Dark!” 

The shadow took up the doorway. I wrenched open the window and thought of my mother, of everyone the Dark took, then jumped. The audience gasped as I hit the ground and tried to stand. My knees buckled and I dug my fingers in the dirt as if I could drag myself to the distant city gates. 

“She’ll never make it!” the host said as the shadow fell over me. The growling ripped into my brain, my spine, my whole body until I screamed and tossed the bracelet away. The shadow went girl-shaped and scrambled to pick it up, her red eyes spellbound by the glinting silver. She disappeared, leaving me alone with the boos and jeers in my earpiece. 

“We can’t all be winners, folks!” the host said as the city gates blurred in my vision. I turned to stare at the dark sky, thumbing the ring my mother gave me, and growled.

That morning, in ways that Katelyn did not want to consider, was not like Thanksgivings before. Throughout her childhood she had woken to the clash of pans, the clank of jars in the refrigerator, and the slam of the front door as her mother left to pick up something she forgot. It was always before the sun came up and Katelyn and her sister, Kristine, would stumble into the kitchen and begin to cut onions because Mom hated the tedium and the tears. After the onions Kristine rolled out pie dough and Katelyn, heavy-handed since toddlerhood, mashed potatoes. Their brother, Kevin, set and reset the table until he was satisfied that the plates were centered between the knives and forks. Katelyn could not recall the specifics of many Thanksgivings because each one operated so similarly to the last, but she knew she’d remember this one.