Ann Stewart McBee
August 2014 Flashes
The skin is like seared meat. First, the inside is like the back of a frog through the surface of the old pond. Then, the moss over my mother’s rock garden. Then, milkweeds along the Blue Ridge Highway. Green onions disappearing into ringlets under Jen’s fingers. Dusk falling on my childhood yard. Lime crushed in a 200-calorie cocktail. The eyes of a dear old cat. Long gone. The pit is Marie’s hair. Dad’s eyes. My tongue writhes with pleasure, though it is already black mud in my mouth. Then I realize that it was just an ice sculpture of an avocado. It turns into a shiny globule, and the hot breath that destroyed it is all I can remember.
Ann Stewart McBee was born in Kalamazoo, Michigan. She earned her PhD in creative writing at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, where she still teaches undergraduate composition and creative writing, and served as an editor for cream city review. Her work has appeared in Ellipsis, Untamed Ink, So to Speak, and At Length among others. She lives in Milwaukee with her husband and a mischievous terrier. Her novel Veiled Men, is looking for a home.