Cathy Schieffelin
Bio
Writing is breath for me. Travel and curiosity contribute to my daily writing life. My first novel, The Call, is available at www.wildflowerspress.com or Amazon. Coming soon: Snakeroot and Cohosh.
Stories (40)
Filter by community
A Love Letter to Charlie
Dear Charlie, I don’t want to say goodbye to you but after you were flipped on your side by Mardi Gras revelers two weeks ago, the insurance company considers you totaled. Breaks my heart that one stupid prank ended our run. Note: my father-in-law is delighted by the news as he considers you a widow-maker and insists we find a safer vehicle for his future progeny. (Shoot, we’re not ready for kids… just got married a few months ago. Can’t we have a little time before the honeymoon ends?)
By Cathy Schieffelin2 days ago in Fiction
Where's the Glory?
In breaking news, rehabilitated Republican Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the Men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly’s Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation rehabilitation program in Memphis, TN after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom soliciting sex from an undercover cop three months ago. He is a founding member of the Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of airport bathrooms.
By Cathy Schieffelin2 days ago in Humor
Colorless. Content Warning.
It’s taller than I remember. Freshly painted, white, austere. All traces of the past erased. No sagging porch stairs, waiting to splinter tender feet. No colorful childish collages painted on interior walls. Everything stark white and too clean. The old cottage invisible in the bones of this immaculate beach house. No longer a fairyland full of old things… my grandmother’s garish gold and green Afghan that kept me warm on cold, damp nights. No dusty sepia-toned photos of old family members. It’s all gone. Colorless. Some might call it clean and bright.
By Cathy Schieffelin2 months ago in Fiction
Marlene. Content Warning.
2025. She wakes every morning in darkness, heaving arthritic limbs out of bed and placing blue-veined feet on the naked wood floor. “No rugs in here, mom. You’ll trip and you can’t afford to break a hip now,” her cautious daughter stated a little too eagerly. She likes the feel of these smooth pine planks beneath her feet, remembering when she and Kent built the old place. Fifty-five years ago. She was just twenty-three years old. And despite her youth, had lived some hard truths.
By Cathy Schieffelin3 months ago in Fiction
Tattered Riches. Honorable Mention in Through the Keyhole Challenge.
The antique keyhole is hard to resist. Peering through, as if a portal to another time, my right eye adjusts to the dimness, swallowing the austere decrepitude of the baby blue foyer. I spy the yellowed edge of our Laidlaw coat of arms, framed in black wood. Gripping the smooth, age-burnished brass knob, I keep my eye to the hole, transfixed by dancing dust mites glittering in the dying sun’s rays cutting the small room into a pair of acute triangles.
By Cathy Schieffelin3 months ago in Fiction
