Published in Red Savina Review, Fiction 6.1, Spring 2018


My Uncle Saul used to predict disasters, like some sixth sense. On my eighth birthday, he mentioned a feeling deep from his gut, days before a tornado had even touched down in the Great Plains, even ahead of the usual signs of the air getting suspiciously stagnant or the cows heading east. It was a few years back that he felt that same disturbance in anticipation of Abigail—a woman as unforgiving and ruthless as any storm. Only she was finally here on my eighteenth birthday, a year after we buried Uncle Saul, and I wasn’t prepared for the damage she would bring down on us.

When she came late on a Sunday night, she was not the kind of woman who would call in advance to make plans or tape a polite note to our door. Abigail stood on the front doorstep with her arms crossed in defiance and both feet planted firm to the porch, steeled with the unrelenting doggedness of a woman who was collecting on a long-overdue debt—little did I know it would be me.

Read the full story here