Tag Archives: Christina Thatcher

Horticulture was her second love. Kaya discovered it just before she died, long after she’d been widowed. Her first plot was sold off: “He won’t mind if I break up some new dirt. He loved to travel too.” She insisted … Continue reading →

August pushed against her until she dripped. It stuck her sweat to synthetic lace and made her dream of the bayou. She was a swamp-treader as a girl, caught crawdads by hand and crammed them deep into her pockets. Sometimes, … Continue reading →

She was eating halloumi the last time I saw her. I remember because I used to think halloumi was a type of fish, and so did she. She claimed the block of spongy cheese hit her tongue like tuna – … Continue reading →

She knew that at this moment she would always have dry feet. Bathmats would be used properly and her toes would never touch cold, wet tiles again. She knew there’d be no more dragging her body up and down the … Continue reading →

Chloe misses thunderstorms, her mother said to the new neighbors over Ovaltine and pecan cookies. She wishes she was back home in Tallahassee, catching fireflies and listening to her Uncle Wayne pluck at his steel guitar. Her mother spoke for … Continue reading →