We all lose something, but what we lose is not always lost.
In The Lost Ones, eleven stories trace the lives of characters navigating the spaces left behindâby grief, by time, by the longing for connection. A woman, grieving over the death of her grandmother, finds solace at her daughterâs birthday party. A man traveling through Europe in search of himself stumbles into a lost love in Dresden. An elderly man loosens the last knot of his past in the most unexpected way. A teenage girl plays with fire to feel seen.
From the Spanish Quarter of Naples to a Parisian cafĂ©, from a small pond in the American South to the forests of the Czech Republic, these poignant stories move through memory, love, regret, and the small salvations we never see coming. Each distinct voice reveals how loss â of people, of place, of self â often clears the ground for something new to take root.
With emotional depth, tenderness, and flashes of magic, The Lost Ones explores how, in the wake of loss, we often find something we didnât know we were looking for.
We all lose something, but what we lose is not always lost.
In The Lost Ones, eleven stories trace the lives of characters navigating the spaces left behindâby grief, by time, by the longing for connection. A woman, grieving over the death of her grandmother, finds solace at her daughterâs birthday party. A man traveling through Europe in search of himself stumbles into a lost love in Dresden. An elderly man loosens the last knot of his past in the most unexpected way. A teenage girl plays with fire to feel seen.
From the Spanish Quarter of Naples to a Parisian cafĂ©, from a small pond in the American South to the forests of the Czech Republic, these poignant stories move through memory, love, regret, and the small salvations we never see coming. Each distinct voice reveals how loss â of people, of place, of self â often clears the ground for something new to take root.
With emotional depth, tenderness, and flashes of magic, The Lost Ones explores how, in the wake of loss, we often find something we didnât know we were looking for.
It was late spring and the sun was hanging over the tree line behind Frankâs pond. The bream had just finished spawning, confirmed by the previous nightâs full moon. The females, having laid their eggs and hungry from laboring, would soon be searching for food while the males guarded the nests. Frank was aware of this. Every day, morning and evening, he fed the fish in his pond. They had come to expect it, to depend on him for it, and when he would come to the bank with a bucket of feed, the fish would sense his presence, swim close, and wait for him to throw the pellets. Frank liked to be depended on. He took pleasure in watching the fish snap at the food he threw for them. He spent hours a day alone by the water, and it was there that he felt the happiest. The pond was Frankâs sacred place.
âPut on some shoes and come outside with me,â Frank said to his daughter.
âDo I have to?â Samantha moaned, reluctant to leave the book she was reading.
âYes, come on. I have something to show you.â Frank walked out the door and closed it behind him.
Samantha quickly threw on some sneakers and went outside. Her father was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of the pond, with a beer in one hand and two fishing rods in the other.
âOh, you want to go fishing,.â Samantha sighed. âIâm expecting a call from Brad anytime now and the service out here is horrible.â
âCome sit down over here.â Frank pointed to an overturned bucket used for a seat.
A second bucket of soil sat on the ground beside them. Frank reached into the dirt and pulled out an earthworm while his other hand held the fishing line. Samantha winced as her father pierced the wriggling worm into the hook and wrapped its body around and around, pushing it through several times to secure it. As a child, Samantha had watched Frank bait a hook countless times, at first with curiosity, then, like with any repeated activity, with indifference. When she was younger, she had watched with fascination as Frank gutted and cleaned fish. But it had been years since sheâd gone fishing with her father, and watching him stab the worm now was enough to turn her stomach.
She grimaced and looked away.
Frank threw the rod over his shoulder with a jerk and cast the line into the pond.
âHold this,â he said, handing her the fishing rod, and Samantha understood that it was meant to be hers. Then Frank took the second rod, baited the hook with a worm and cast it into the water. The two corks floated side by side a few meters apart from each other. Father and daughter sat quietly watching the corks. The air was still but cool, and Samantha regretted not bringing a sweater.
âSo, what was it you wanted to show me?â she asked.
âAh, that. You see that bucket of worms?â Frank pointed, and Samantha shifted her eyes towards the bucket.
âIâve been raising earthworms to sell for bait. They go for $10 at most of the gas stations around. But if I sell mine for $8, I think I can make a decent profit. People donât want to pay $10 for a bucket of worms.â
âYeah, thatâs a good idea, Dad.â Samantha slapped a mosquito on her arm and hoped a fish would bite soon.
âWhy didnât Brad come with you this time?â Frank asked. âEverything alright with the two of you?â
âHeâs been pretty busy at work,â Samantha lied. She was the one who had told Brad not to come. It wasnât that she didnât want him there. Things with Brad were good, solid, and Samantha adored him. And, as far as she could tell, Frank was pretty fond of him too. But for this particular visit, Samantha had asked him to stay behind, said she wanted it that way. It was probably the last chance sheâd have to spend time alone with her father, just the two of them, and Brad understood.
âHow many deer have you killed this year?â she asked.
âOnly one. Still got some sausage in the freezer. I could make chili tonight if you want,â Frank offered, and took a sip of his beer.
âI think Iâm going out with Rachel and Sarah tonight. Thanks though.â Samantha didnât feel like reminding her father, yet again, that she had been a vegetarian for the past two years.
Suddenly, one of the corks moved and Frank jerked the rod in response. Once the fish was hooked, Frank gave the rod to Samantha to reel it in.
âNo, no, you reel it in,â she said, politely refusing, and pushed the fishing pole away. Samantha couldnât remember the last time sheâd reeled in a fish and preferred to watch her father do it first.
Frank stared at his daughter for a moment, then reeled in the fish himself. It was a fairly large bluegill bream. âNearly half a pound,â Frank guessed and held the fish so Samantha could get a better look. Orange breast like a persimmon and thebody striped a muddy, army green. A beautiful fish, just as Samantha remembered. Then she saw blood coming from its mouth.
âSwallowed the hook,â her father said as he laid the fish on the ground. It flailed and flopped in the grass. âIâll need some pliers,â he added and left to retrieve a pair from the garage. When Frank came back, he picked up the fish and carefully removed the hook. This time Samantha watched her father and noted the quickness of his hands, mechanical like a surgeonâs. She admired this about her father. But as the hook was pried free, it made a hideous clicking sound, and Samanthaâs shoulders shuddered.
âThatâll be good eating,â Frank said, holding up the bream one last time before tossing it into the cooler.
âYeah,â she said.
Samanthaâs phone rang. It was Brad. She motioned to her father that sheâd walk toward the house to take the call.
âHey you,â she answered.
âHey, howâs it going down there? Surviving?â
âYeah.â Samantha laughed. âFishing with Dad right now. He just caught a bream.â
Brad chuckled. âYou must be having a blast.â
âYou know it.â
There was a short pause.
âSo have you told him yet?â Brad asked.
âNot yet.â
âSamantha, youâve got to tell him.â
âI will, I will. Iâve still got three more days.â
âThree more days,â he repeated. âAnd please tell your dad how much I wish I could be there.â
âI will.â
âAnd try to enjoy the rest of the trip. You know youâll miss him when you leave.â
âI know. I will.â
Samantha came back and looked out at the pond. There was a thin, green film on top of the water, some kind of algae. Her father had said something the day before about there being too much oxygen in the water, but she hadnât paid much attention. Her mind had been filled with other thoughts, and while she pretended to listen and nodded politely, Samantha hadnât really heard what her father had said about it.
Frank reeled in another bluegill.
âNice,â Samantha said of the fish.
âA little small,â her father said. âHowâs Brad?â
âHeâs doing fine. Looking forward to seeing me again.â
âIâm sure you miss him a lot. Two weeks is a long time to be away from your boyfriend.â
Samantha sighed. âYes, it is.â
The sun was melting into the horizon. A towhee made its evening âdrink-your-teaâ call.
Samantha looked up into the nearby pine trees to see if she could find the bird, but it was too dark and she wasnât wearing her glasses. When the wind began to blow, Samantha rubbed her upper arms with her hands.
âItâs getting dark and Iâm a little cold,â she said. âReady to call it quits?â
âJust a few more minutes,â Frank replied.
Samantha didnât protest. Brad was right. She should try to enjoy these last few days with her father. Samantha thought about when she would be back. Another year, if she didnât come for Thanksgiving or Christmas. The flight from New York wasnât long, but expensive for her means, and with the busy theater schedule, it wasnât a trip she could make often. Samantha accepted that her father didnât visit. He only left home to go to church, the grocery store, and the post office. Frank still used a flip phone, was awful at sending texts, and preferred to send Samantha hand-written letters. Though she missed not hearing from her father more often, she cherished a letter as if it were the man himself. It was Samanthaâs decision to move away, and because she was the one who left, she knew it was up to her to make the effort.
âDid I tell you that Iâm the understudy for a play starting in the fall?â
âOh yeah?â
âFiddler on the Roof. And itâs on Broadway.â
âUnderstudy,â her father repeated, âMmeaning you only go out there if the lead is sick or breaks a leg or something?â
âWell, yes, but itâs Broadway. Itâs still a pretty big deal.â
âThatâs great, Sam,â Frank said. Then a fire ant bit him on the ankle. âAlways so many damn ants out here,â he said, slapping his skin and wiping away the antâs remains.
Samantha checked her own ankles for ants and saw there were none.
âHey, did I tell you I invited the Foxwellâs here for dinner next week?â her father asked. âThought theyâd like to see you while youâre here.â
Samantha didnât want to talk about the Foxwells. She wanted to tell her father more about the play and how sheâd worked like hell to become understudy. All the late-night rehearsals, the days of utter exhaustion when she had felt beaten and worn down. All the dinner dates and plans with friends sheâd broken because of the show. She had wanted to give up so many times. But when she got the understudy part, the reasons for quitting were forgotten. There was a point to it all. And she wanted to tell her father about all these things, so that he could understand them and appreciate what she was doing. She wanted his praise and approval, but above all, she wanted to connect with him like she used to when she was a child. It was so much easier back then, when they could spend hours in a forest and talk about snakes and spiders, pine trees and oaks. But Samantha didnât live in that world anymore. Frankâs world was another place, almost foreign to her now, and talking to her father about the theater was her way of trying to pull him into hers.
When Samantha didnât reply, her father repeated, âSo you'll be here next Thursday when the Foxwells come?â
The Foxwells. Dinner. âOh, yeah,â she said. âSure.â
The two were quiet for a while. The air was cold without the sun.
âItâs getting pretty cold. Iâm going to grab a sweater.â When she came back outside, her father was pulling a hook out of a rather small bream.
âHow many is that now?â Samantha hoped this fish would be the last.
âOne more and we go in. Iâd like to have enough for dinner tomorrow.â Frank cast the fishing poles again and Samantha watched the corks bob in the water. They waited in silence for them to move, and when they didnât, Frank said, âMaybe the fish are done biting today.â
It was dusk and they would have to go inside soon.
âDad,â Samantha said.
âYeah?â
âI have something to tell you.â There was no easy way to say it. âBrad asked me to marry him. Weâre engaged.â
Frank looked at his daughter, expressionless, then looked back at the pond. There wasnât a ripple or movement of any kind. Frank finished his beer with a long gulp and crushed the can with his hand.
Samantha waited for him to give his blessing, waited for him to say something, anything. Frank handed his pole to his daughter. âIâm going for another beer. Hold the pole for me.â
Samantha took the pole from her fatherâs hand. As she sat there alone, gazing out at the pond underneath a muted purple sky, she marveled at the serenity and the stillness. This was what she was missing in the city.
Frogs began to croak. Samantha remembered a time when she and her father had caught a baby frog and snuck it into the house to scare her mother. She must have been about six or seven years old, because her mother had died when she was eight and most of the memories of her were from the year or two before. The memory of that day came back so easily now. Samantha had gone into the house with a smile as wide as a jack-o-lanternâs. The mischief in Samanthaâs grin should have told her mother something was amiss, but she failed to notice. When Samantha opened her hands, the tiny frog, frightened, jumped right into her motherâs lap. Her mother screamed as if theyâd brought in a copperhead snake. Frank and Samantha just laughed and laughed. They were always bringing some live animal into the house (baby turtles, lizards, the occasional grasshopper) to scare her, and her poor mother fell for it every time. Samantha smiled at the memory.
Frank came back with two beers and handed one to Samantha. âThanks Dad,â she said and popped the pull tab.
One of the floating corks suddenly moved. Samantha grabbed the rod and jerked it back quickly, instinctively. As she turned the reel, she was surprised at the fishâs pull. It was strong, and as Samantha pulled on the rod and turned the handle, winding it as quickly as she could, the rod curved and bent.
âLooks like youâve really got something there,â Frank said. âYeah, and it feels like a pretty big one.â
Frank watched as Samantha kept working on the fish, reeling and pulling, reeling and pulling. âSure is determined,â she said, her face strained and focused.
Frank smiled. âYouâve got him, just donât let him break the line.â
âI know, I know,â she said. The more Samantha pulled and reeled, the harder the fish pulled back. âHe just doesnât want to be caught,â she said between ground teeth.
âKeep pulling him. Easy,â Frank coached.
âI got him, donât worry.â
The rod tip was bent into a U shape, but Samantha kept pulling and reeling, trying to find the right balance to keep the line from breaking. Slowly, it all came back to her. She pulled the fish closer and closer to the shore. She was certain then she would bring him in.
Finally, the fish surfaced.
Samantha held the line just above the fishâs mouth and grabbed the body with the other hand. Seeing the fish, she quickly looked to her father. The same look of surprise was on his face. It wasnât a bream.
âA catfish!â Frank called out. âI canât believe it. Itâs been years since Iâve caught a catfish out of this pond.â
âReally?â Samantha laid the fish down in the grass.
âI thought they all died out when I stopped restocking it.â
âWhen was that?â
Frank began to count on his fingers. âAt least five years, Iâd say.â
âAround the time I moved to New York.â
âI guess it was.â Frank nodded.
âWell, Dad,â Samantha said, âThat sure is something then.â
âIt sure is.â
Samantha wondered how the catfish survived all that time without Frankâs detection. She knew her father spent a lot of time at his pond, that he fed the fish every morning and evening.
âDad?â
âYeah?â
âIt was a good day to go fishing,â Samantha said.
âYes, it was.â Frank smiled. âYes, it was.â
Samantha picked up the catfish. It felt wet and slimy. She realized she hadnât held a fish in her hands in a long time.
She knew exactly what she would do next, because she had done it countless times before. It was a sort of tradition of hers and her fatherâs. Slowly she turned the catfish over so that it lay on its back, then she rubbed the white belly with her fingers. Back and forth her fingers went over the belly in the familiar way.
âSmooth as a catfishâs belly,â Samantha said, smiling, and looked at her father.
Frank smiled. Then he too rubbed the belly with his fingers. âSmooth as a catfishâs belly,â he said, repeating their well-known phrase, a sort of joke between them.
âI was thinking,â Frank cleared his throat, âthat maybe I would come to New York for Christmas this year. See one of those shows youâre in.â
Samanthaâs eyes widened. Her mouth was a crescent moon. âWell, the show will end before Christmas, but if you come a week or two before, youâll be able to catch the last one.â
âAlright. I think I could do that.â
For fans of short stories, The Lost Ones by Amy Nunnelly stands out as a powerful exploration of themes such as death, relationships, and familyâthe very fabric of our lives. Be it about a father catching up with his daughter, a widower holding onto a necktie the dead beloved gifted him, a man going places as he explores places and people, or a cat completely missed by the owner, the stories told here sink deep into what makes us humans. They convey happiness, romance, grief and so much more in between.
My favorite number one story is The Catch, in which Frank and his daughter, Samantha, talk about their past, present, and future, all while fishingâan experience filled with memorable moments. In MacGyver, More Than Just a Cat, Agnes canât bear being without her cat, the experience taking a toll on her, and her story comes layered with not just a cat-and-her owner relationship but also so much more about life. GlĂŒhwein Veritas beautifully captures the feeling of being lost away from home through Aiden's reflections during his travels. In Dresden, Aiden meets an old friend, leading to introspective conversations about their lives. As far as holding onto the memory, particularly of a dead loved one, the protagonistâs story poignantly takes the reader through a widowerâs life, all the more reasons why Necktie is also my favorite. Here, a necktie means so much to the protagonist as it reminds him of his wife Milota. But isn't it time to let it go? Time to begin anew. Too Pretty to Burn also impresses, told from the point of view of a narrator obsessed with fire, intrigued by it earlier on and now canât resist starting one. âI just like to make fire, watch fire, watch things being burned by fire,â he admits. Overall, this collection pays homage to humanity's quest for love, exploration, and resilience in challenging times.
The characters are particularly enjoyable; they are well-developed and, thanks to Nunnelly's writing, invite readers into the depths of their circumstances. For instance, Agnes's devastation over her cat's disappearance makes it clear why simply replacing the cat wouldn't suffice for her. As such, itâs easy to immerse oneself in these charactersâ stories; to see their world through their eyes and hear their unique voices.