A. Crossan
Bio
Location: Earth
Stories (4)
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Mrs. V's Garden
The day began just as so many had before. Mrs. V lay face up on a queen bed, arms folded across her stomach, as a cat snored softly between her feet. The sun’s gentle rays danced through the hand-sewn drapes before they landed on her face. The darkness receded and she sat up at a speed that refuted her one hundred and one years of age.
By A. Crossanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Boarding Pass
I stood in line and pressed my fingers together then bent my hands at the knuckle pulling palms apart, stretching the tight ligaments and muscles around my metacarpals. One by one I stretched each finger, pausing only to grab my suitcase and move forward a step or two each time the queue progressed. I watched the wave of slow but constant movement through the line of people, the perpetual forward motion serpentined in a way that looked almost melodic. I massaged the palm of my hands then rolled my shoulders and neck, sighing with the subtle release of tension. I reached the end of the queue and handed my passport to the TSA agent, who scanned it intently, then said gruffly, “Why Christmas in Pennsylvania?”
By A. Crossan2 years ago in Fiction
Gully
With a tattered towel Belinda dried a terra cotta mug, then lifted herself up onto her tiptoes and reached overhead to hang the mug from a row of hooks above the bar. Directly ahead, through cloudy windows framed in warping wood, she watched the early evening sun high on the horizon. A quick rap of knuckles against the counter came from the end of the bar. Belinda turned her attention towards the sound, and the man motioned her over. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Fill ‘er ep, and gimme a bowl of whatever you got.”
By A. Crossan3 years ago in Fiction
Hand-Drawn Dreams
A metallic clang softly rang out as she held the keys against the door handle, hearing the click of the FOB she pressed her shoulder against the door and used the weight of her body to push it open. Stepping into the apartment her gaze went first to the windows, which reflected the outline of her husband, awash in the warm glow of the kitchen lights. After taking off her shoes and face mask she proceeded to the kitchen sink and counted to twenty while vigorously lathering soap between her fingers. Her husband leaned over and kissed her cheek as he scrubbed away dinner remnants from the wok.
By A. Crossan5 years ago in Journal
