Posts made in March, 2011


Words Christine Janak A violent hurricane of words Shook the house. They seeped through the cracks in the ceiling And crawled under the doors. They slithered up the staircase And bled through the walls. Thousands of fire-red ants Seared pinholes into my flesh. Words were thrown Like crumpled tissues into a waste-bin. I sat on my bedroom floor With my knees crushed against my chest As truth gobbled me up like a Sunday feast. Share...

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Going Home

Going Home Allison Keeton Fisher It’s a small town, the center of which is situated just about three miles south of Interstate 64 in eastern Kentucky. The connecting road between the town and the Interstate is a four-lane highway dotted with businesses and homes built on and into the hills that border the road. Close to the Interstate, nestled on a hill at the edge of the forest, is a funeral home that transports the deceased through town and all over the countryside to small family cemeteries. On a recent trip home, my mother and I were driving north on this connecting highway toward the Interstate, when I noticed that all the cars in front of me were pulling off to the side of the road and stopping. I slowed down, too, simply because I didn’t know what was going on. Then, around the bend, I saw what was happening. There was a hearse leading a long line of cars toward town. I pulled over, like everyone else, and noticed that everything around us had come to a halt as well. In a parking lot across the road, some high school kids were raising money at a car wash. They stopped their laughing and sloshing around and stood still, some with hands folded in front, some with their heads down. The whole scene brought back a memory I have of being downtown with my mamaw as a child, walking up the sidewalk with her and seeing a funeral go by. We stopped, as was customary, and I asked why. She shushed me until all the cars had gone by and then told me, “It’s just something you do when someone dies.” In my hometown, it still is, plain and simple. As my mother and I watched this procession go by, I was immediately taken back to my own mamaw’s funeral. My grandmother was my first close relative to die. My other grandparents had passed on when I was a young child, and I can’t really remember anything about their funerals. I was thirty when mamaw died and consider myself blessed to have made it that far into my adult life without losing anyone intimately close to me. I had long since left Morehead, gotten married, and Rachel was nine months old at the time. It had been years since I attended a funeral, so I had forgotten the small town rituals surrounding it. I had gotten used to the muttering and sighing and eye rolling that usually accompanies a funeral in a big town, because of the traffic jam it causes and how it makes everyone late for whatever they are in such a hurry to get to. After...

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