Shannon Grasser
Stories (2)
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Humbirds
Today is Elden’s eleventh birthday. He wants to find a cake or shoot a gun - whichever comes first. He stands before the threshold of the MiniMart at a tall-for-his-age 4 feet and 8 inches, an old snubbie sweaty at his hip. Though he’s held it close for months now, he’s never used it. How lucky he is, he thinks, to be such a coward. To spend ten years alive like this. And what will Eleven be? Another year of childhood; of holding his breath, all tucked away in corners, praying that whatever’s in the room with him would pass right by? Or will he man up this year, stare the creatures in the face, pull the trigger?
By Shannon Grasser5 years ago in Fiction
A Cleaving in Addison County
There are six girls in this town with the same name as me. Addison County will spare not a single one. These Addisons, them and I, exist like lambs. We don immaculately white skirts and sleep silently on doorsteps. We beg. This is how they like to see us. This is the only way we can be stomached, as if we ride in on thin air out of a fantasy. As if we are not like them.
By Shannon Grasser5 years ago in Fiction
