Shay Pelfrey
Bio
I'm a grad student just writing short stories to help fund my way through school. Each story either fuels tuition, a caffeine addiction, and maybe my sanity. Thank you all for reading!
Stories (9)
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Only Open on Tuesdays
"The past isn't dead," Mrs. Latch often said. "It's just catalogued." Bellwether Museum was not on any map, now did it have an address. It sat politely between a bakery and an abandoned tax office, in a town that didn't remember building it. No one questioned its existence, some said it had always been there, others insisteed it appeared sometime after to flood of '53. Regardless, everyone agreed on one thing: it was only open on Tuesdays.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
Dead Letter Day
For twenty-two years after he died, Harvey Wills delivered the mail with unfailing precision, just as he had in life. He rose each morning from the gentle, swirling fog at the edge of Bellhaven, straightened the cuffs of his blue postal uniform, and began his route with a quiet whistle. The notes drifted softly through town, barely audible, carrying memories of an old tune no one quite remembered.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
All Debts Forgiven
My father died with thirty-two dollars in his wallet and a ledge hidden beneath the floorboards. There was no obituary, no funeral. Just a voicemail from the county office letting me know the body had been claimed, processed, and cremated, and that I was still listed as next of kin. The voice was soft and detached, as if it were telling me a library book was overdue. They offered me a cardboard box with his effects, and I said no.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
Table Six
Every Sunday morning, I sit across from a man I do not know and pretend I am in love with him. I call him Ezra. That may not be his name. I made it up the first time and he didn't correct me. I leaned into the booth at table six, smoothed my dress like I'd just come back from the restroom, and said, "Sorry I'm late." He didn't flinch. He looked up from the menu, smiled politely, and said, "You always are."
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
What We Forgot First
We didn't notice at first what was being lost. It began with little things-- how to fold bedsheets properly, how to merge into traffic with hesitating, how to whistle. An older man in my apartment stood in the elevator staring at the buttons like they were unfamiliar. When someone asked what floor he needed, he looked up, eyes glassy, and said, "That depends." We laughed. It became something to joke about, a kind of mass absent-mindedness we chalked up to stress, age, distraction. "Must be Monday," people said, tapping their temples like faulty machines. But the forgetting didn't go away, and it didn't stay small.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
The Stillness Protocol
They say evil has no face. That's the first lie they teach you in the stillness rooms. Evil has a face. It wears mine, and I've grown quite fond of it. You don't survive thirteen recalibrations and six coma trials without developing an appreciation for symmetry.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
The Orchard of Names
Elric Vane had not meant to wander so far-- not tonight. The fog had thickened faster than usual, and the ground beneath him was soft with thaw. Yet there he stood, lantern flickering weakly, before a crooked beech tree carved with a name he hadn't spoken aloud in two decades. His name-- almost.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
