“Religion isn’t like cleaning a chicken,” I told him. ‘You can’t take the messy parts out.”
Author: joanspilman
Former teacher, writer of Appalachian Literature, short stories, and fantasy. Current publication, "This Will Never Stop" see Kirkus Reviews, Vol. LXXXXVII, NO. 22 Nov. 15, 2019. Also featured on booktrib, and Booklife. Has published a YA entitled "Sansablatt Head", and books for children under the general title of "The Waddling Dead". Received MFA from Wichita State University where she received the fellowship. Published in Southern Humanities Review, Short Story International, Carriage House Review,Willow Springs, Laurel Review and other literary magazines. Winner of George Garrett Prize for Best Prose, W.WashingtonU. Winner of Microkosmos Fiction Award, WSU. Winner of John Maier Award at Marshall University.
This Textured Darkness, #90
The Red Robe who’d introduced himself as Strout prodded them forward, and they’d stumbled down the aisle. Hesitant steps, clumsy. The double oaken doors shut with a… Read more “This Textured Darkness, #90”
This Textured Darkness, # 89
The Nawabs had floated around the city, finally settling in a portion called The Bottom. But for a barn-like structure where plague victims went to die, the Bottom was comprised of shanties.
This Textured Darkness, #88
Jessum uncorked the second jug before leaning out the window.
This Textured Darkness, #87
It was time for a decision. Half a loaf and a jug later, Jessum reached several. The bread was heavenly, the cider tart, and it was time to leave.
This Textured Darkness, 86
The key to his cell was hanging below the sconce. The rush candle would burn for hours, in which time he was meant to imagine freedom.
This Textured Darkness, #85
Like the sea he dreamt of, pain swallowed his every part.
This Textured Darkness #84
The bowl isn’t full.
The bowl was Elymas, nearly full to the brim with rot and pride.
This Textured Darkness, #83
Oren began to use his fists. He’d heard the crack of neck against stone, and watched as a Red Robe tumbled down the stone steps.
This Textured Darkness, #82
Mirella’s desperation became clear. She was being forced to flee because of her testimony. Had she been threatened? Struck?
