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Submitted to Contest #317
Maggie was taking a writing class online. Her husband had laughed a lot about that. “What good is that going to do you,” he asked her. “Find a job or come home and clean the house. I shouldn’t have to fund another dream for the woman who never finishes anything.”By that point, Maggie had stopped listening to him. These days, she simply couldn’t pay attention to every insult he threw at her, each little barb calculated to undermine her. Maggie imagined herself as a pin cushion, or perhaps one of those trout fishing hats. All those little...
Submitted to Contest #288
Bob was coming. “What kind of name is that for a hurricane,” Maggie had asked her sister yesterday. There had been a pause, enough so that the silence was real. “Be careful with this one, Maggie,” Jillian had said. “It’s supposed to hit us.” Hit us, Maggie thought, as though Jillian were standing beside her and not safely in Manhattan. Maggie was on Nantucket, facing the Atlantic, and Bob was coming. Now Maggie sat on the porch steps and stared, her eyes wide open with awe, as dark red stretched out acro...
Submitted to Contest #275
Early on in her relationship with Maggie’s father and his summer house, Maggie’s mother saw a ghost. Now Maggie lay in the dark and imagined her mother doing the same, lying here awake. The ghost was Mr. McDonough and he had worked for the lady who first owned the house. Mr. McDonough fell in love with her and when she died in a car accident, Mr. McDonough sat on the porch in a rocking chair and stared out to sea. He died of a broken heart. Sometimes, on a windless day in August, the empty rocking chair on the porch woul...
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