At 16, she left her Hello Kitty underwear in Bobby Ferguson’s bedroom. His mom found them while laundering the sheets that following Saturday and wept and grounded Bobby for a month and banned Ellen from their house and told their friends she was a slut; but his dad patted him on the back when his mom was not looking and Bobby retrieved the panties from the trash and kept them in his locker until the day he graduated.



In college she forgot Victoria’s Secret thongs and bikini tops in… Continue

When we moved to the new house in the new city, a semi-custom home, Mom got to choose the carpeting: cream-colored shag, a 2-inch-deep pile, she even bought a carpet rake. So trendy and lucky, we were a family to be envied! Our pool was always filled with new friends: summer-browned children shrieking and splashing, oblivious to anything beyond one long, hot, freedom-filled day after another. On a humid, sleepless night when Dad was on a business trip in the city we had just moved from, a trip… Continue

Mrs Haygood gets in her car to go WalMart. Freddy slips out the back door when the cops come to the front door, hops the back fence, hotwires a car on the next block, and takes off. Driving along, Mrs Haygood is very preoccupied with thoughts of one of her little dogs; Miss Liz is breathing funny. Doing 70 through the school zone, Freddy is determined not to go back to jail; 10 years was enough off of his life, and, in hindsight, writing that bad check while still on parole probably wasn’t such… Continue

He sat behind her every day during sing-a-long time, pulling his little pocket comb through her waist-length hair while they sang “Where Is Thumbkin?”; then he would kiss her hair and put his comb away. First grade separated them, they never shared a class again, but waved excitedly when they passed in the halls or saw each other at recess. By third grade the opposite sex was to be avoided at all costs—“Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you’ve got your cootie shot”—yet she still considered Kenneth… Continue

When she awakens she is alone. Sure, she knows if he stays until dawn she will awaken next to a pile of dust, very old dust. But it still annoys her. Every night she willingly gives him her body and blood. Eventually her life, either temporal or eternal, will be his. The least he could do is kiss her good morning before leaving.


LA Wilson is a writer living in Texas who does not mind squirrels raiding the bird feeders.