Short Stories

Mad As Matthew Gentry

by Hank Lawson

That is Mary’s screaming. Her screams ice the air like January rain on Washington’s streets. Why can I not see the cause of her distress? If this be day, the sun is gone; if night, the moon is gone. What binds me that I cannot move to soothe her? Absence of sun and moon fails to account for my shallow breath; it follows that I ride the pale horse. Five victorious days for the Union since Lee surrendered to Grant and I lose the union of soul and body.

Mad As Matthew Gentry is scheduled to be published in the Chicago Quarterly Review

On the Shore of A Woman

by Hank Lawson

I am ever on the shore of a woman. Lap upon her sand, then withdraw. Wet salt bristles my nostrils. In boggy regions fish die and I chew her salty bread. Pores appear on her moss-slick skin, but I see them only as stars far away. My pulse swells and breaks like surf. Her heart foghorns across the blackness. In pools I near her grace, then ebb. Her undulating body pulls then repels. Compressed air belches and grit grinds between us. I squeeze into her mud. She opens and then me. I am milk-white. She is liquid eyes. However deep I wash into her, more of me remains outside.

On the Shore of a Woman has been published by the Ekphrastic Review.

Music playing:

“Starry Night” by Hank Lawson. More music by Hank here.