Stories +

Creative Writing

Her steering that heavy metal cart with purpose and determination.

Her steering that heavy metal cart with purpose and determination. The gold from a singular chain around her neck, twinkling under the incessant glare from the warehouse lights above. It’s Sacajawea-sized charm, inscribed ‘I love you’ in flowery-cursive script, resting at the center of her sternum. That her bones were so delicate, clavicles like a baby bird, yet no one ever thought of Carolyn as delicate. Because she was the strongest person anyone who met her has ever known.

The Carrie Dreams

After she was murdered, I started having dreams about her. In the first one, I was waiting by an old rotary dial phone in some sun-drenched Florida room when finally a call came. Carolyn told me how she was sorry she hadn’t called sooner. That she’s been so busy. I asked what it was like, wherever she was. She laughed and said it was very much like it is here. That she had a job and had moved into her new house—  and then of course she had to spend all her time decorating and settling in because she can never settle down until she’s settled in. ‘One thing is different,’ she said. ‘Fewer men. Which makes sense, when you think about it.’ She laughed. ‘Souls are made mostly of female energy anyway.’