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Art & Other Fictitious Imaginings
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Driving out of Sag Harbor in the middle of an early autumn day, Ellen took her eyes off the road as often as she safely could. She was trying to take in as much of the outskirts of town as possible.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 My wife and I occupied this house for 55 years.
My parents restored it following the Great Depression. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Christine Sloan StoddardEditor's Note: This piece was originally published in Love Your Rebellion (print).  Sorry for the delayed response to your email.
I just didn't feel like replying. Sorry for the delayed response to your email. I actually won't be sending any more emails to anyone ever again. To reach me, please throw pebbles at my window or do not attempt to contact me at all. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 I dreamt about you again last night. You sat looking at me, your eyes questioning even as they shined in every direction. I knew the answer, but I couldn't respond. I had no voice. I couldn't say aloud what I knew would become real once uttered.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Man, 35: Just want someone to help decorate my house.
Man, 33: Let’s be honest, I’m insecure, have trust issues, and will try to buy your affection. You should probably just swipe left. Man, 28: I just want someone who actually wants to be around me. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 When I date a man, I know the days will be darker than if I had a woman by my side.
He will walk a little bit ahead of me on the wooded path and in grocery store aisles. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 The sun does not set fast enough when a few of us tumble out of the entrance of Miracle World. Each person holds a bucket filled with golden tokens—except for me—that spills over the edges while they run in a bee-line, tinkling when they make contact with the pavement beneath their feet. None of them bother to pick up the fallen coins. Neither do I. I run beside the group with my right hand in my pocket. My fingers wrap tightly around the single gold coin within it. Nobody notices that I have no bucket in hand.
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