Posts by Jennifer Dougan

“We’re going back to what’s familiar,” she said, smiling at her companion, “our normal version of Cribbage.” The older gentleman with her says something I can’t hear. Their voices are a dim hum behind me, flitting in and out of my attention. A woman across from me slices her egg frittata and pierces a bite…

Turning into a parking lot full of cars, I pull into a space and switch off the engine. Eighth grade Daniel in the chair beside me folds his tall lanky body over to grab his backpack. “Okay, classes with prefixes A or B are in that building,” I point behind us, “and classrooms with C-prefixes…

A knock at the door. Faces rippled and blurred in their movement behind the door’s cut glass window. Arriving in groups of two or four, they walked up our driveway, past the newly-cleaned flower beds where iris plants stood tall in narrow green wedges and daisy plants grouped in loping round-edged leaf clumps. “Welcome!” “You…

Popping open the lid from the sugar cookies container, I choose the most-iced versions of the two-inch sugar cookie men. At the dining room table, I pour another cup of coffee and bite a cookie figure in half. Clicking an ink gel-tipped pen into ready, I’m still processing yesterday’s time here. “Teach me to number…

“You’re from Living Faith Church, right?” She asks me, this woman in a public bathroom. “I saw your bus.” In a cement multi-stalled bathroom at Valley Fair amusement park, with chlorine-scented puddles on the floor, we stand in a corner of the hallway. Her warm smile draws my attention and I stop and recognize her.…

“They return at evening, snarling like dogs, and prowl about the city.” He writes the words as armed men on mission keep watch on his house, wondering if he is there. Creeping across his garden, they report back to a superior and continue to stare at his unlit home. Others roam the city, looking for…

  “You can’t go back there. There’s nothing there for you and nothing solid that you can hold on to there.” Pink twilight slips off four tall blue spruce trees. Yellow and tan houses blanch highlit and then fade to cool cream as the sun dips lower. Neighborhood noises are quiet but my mind is…

“Siri, text Mom…” and I rattle off a stream of sentences. The phone blinks yellow green at me and beeps, before reading aloud my words. A mix of garbled and legitimate phrases echo up to me from where the phone sits, untouched, in the car cup holder. I laugh at one translation of my thoughts…

It was as if I needed permission. Reaching out, I trailed fingers on blue velvet. My fingers flexed, tensed, cupping the top of the recliner, patting it in a shoulder pat I could no longer give to my dad. He used to sit right here. I glanced at the wide flat seat of the chair…