August 2014 Flashes
Sarah Freligh is the author of Sort of Gone and A Brief Natural History of an American Girl, winner of the Editor’s Choice Award from Accents Publishing. Recent work has been published in Sun Magazine, Brevity, Barn Owl Review, and Rattle. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Constance Saltonstall Foundation, and the New York Council on the Arts.
Monday, she wears a black eye to school. Her t-shirt says Jesus Saves at First Pentecostal, but she’s not talking. She wears pants in gym class, undresses in a mop closet. Hums to herself when she walks the hallways, cold-shouldered by a row of lockers.
Wednesday, she comes to school smelling of turnips and yeast, raises her hand in algebra class and says she’s not feeling so good.
Friday, she’s on our TVs, a lump on a stretcher. Everybody’s talking. Immaculate conception, says her father as he’s led away in handcuffs. Pinking shears, says the anchor lady.
I talked her once, about the weather. Her name was Mary. So much snow that winter.