I had a short story in The Saturday Paper last weekend: "Emily". It's a speculative fiction tale, which takes liberties with the life and ideas of American poet, Emily Dickinson. Here's the beginning:
You ask about the ceremony. It was last week. I wore a pretty white cotton dress – my sister’s Lavinia’s. (You understand how the mind dawdles on the path of time, how I must run to catch up with “now”.)
I woke before dawn – lazy girl, this crue last weekend: "Emily". It's a speculative fiction tale, which takes liberties with the life and ideas of rting gift before I left the family.
From the stairs, Mr E. D. threw me a glove – his grandfather’s. Fine kid skin, like white trilliums. I thanked him for his “perseverance” – by which I meant his clinging to respectability. Then he went to his study.
Mrs E. D. handed me a puppet from my girlhood. Large head and eyes, larger nose. A tiny body in white. “You remember this? Lavinia envied your gifts. She cut the strings and – goodness – your tears.” Then Mrs E. D. laughed and laughed and laughed, as if silence were a sharp blade she had to blunt. I thanked mo her for her “good cheer” – by which I meant her cowardice.
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