Their Memories by Jude Higgins
I said everyone has a memory of walking through a field of corn, and you said it wasn’t corn…
I said everyone has a memory of walking through a field of corn, and you said it wasn’t corn…
It’s August in the midwest. I’m fifteen and me and my cousin Coreene sit on the top step of her front porch.
“The therapist says I’m a wreck,” the husband said.
“We’ve already established that,” said Lulu.
They found her body in the mountains, face burned. In her locker at the train station they found nine passports and three wigs.
The slam of cupboards and loud singing wakes me. I have to get my bearings, the strange bed, the fog in my head. Who is that? Wait, familiar voice.