Emily Littlewood

  • The canary was still. It was too late to run. Too late to escape. Too late to pray for God’s mercy.

     

    Matt had been one of the lucky ones, one of sixteen coal miners chosen to work on a Saturday mo […]

  • You are quirky in a very classy way. Postcards and trinkets and such. You make it all so interesting.
    Unathi to Anita
    Dear Debbie,

    Is your spirit smiling as I work on my third act? It’s been over ten y […]

  • Morning hunkered over the house, gray and unyielding, pressing through the spaces between the drawn shade and the window frame. Wes sat on the edge of the bed in underwear and socks, next to a […]

  • When that technician pointed out two heartbeats and two precious teensy penises on the screen, I was over the moon. Buddy leaned over and kissed me and cried real quiet-like, like he wasn’t actually crying, b […]

  • Trudy wrote a new post 6 years, 9 months ago

    So delicious—this light, this air, this time, my time, because I have constructed a solitary life in order to free up time to write. Ice chatters in cool, stevia-sugared lime juice; I look out through the window a […]

  • When he put this ring on my finger, my skin was smoother, and more supple. My hand was thinner, and less freckled than it is now. When he asked me to marry him, he got down on one knee in front of the London […]

  • I spent four days and nights smashed against a bus window in transit to my first husband’s family reunion half nauseous from breathing in the diesel fumes and the aroma of the chemical toilet a few feet behind u […]

  • Trudy wrote a new post 6 years, 9 months ago

    “We’re walking to the midnight service?” my daughter asked. “With all the hooligans out there.”

    It was Christmas Eve. I looked out the window onto the streets of our Eastern Shore town. A mostly full moon moved […]

  • Have you ever used virtual reality goggles to watch a movie? Imagine that the film starts off in an African village. Ahead of you, you see a hut and can almost smell the smoke rising from a campfire. You hear […]

  • On the third visit, they kicked his stomach and broke his thumbs. The bones cracked like an electrical charge shooting through his entire body, exiting via his skull, as if everything he knew, everything he […]

  • A few years back, a new neighbor called. “Katie, there’s an old man leaning against my front wall, should I call the police?”

    I pulled my window up and leaned out to look, just two houses over. There was Paul, […]

  • “You can get a wax.” She rubs the stubbly black fuzz on my calves, nodding. “A little long.”

    “Yeah, I know. It’s been cold.” I feel the need to defend myself to the woman painting my toenails. Suddenly my m […]

  • Priscilla, lovely writing. We’re enjoying Seattle but I miss you and all my VA friends!

  • Erika Raskin wrote a new post 7 years ago

    It was a sticky, overcast August day in the Connecticut River Valley, and it was going to be a heavy one.

    Already, at 9:00 in the morning, Ed was poking his head into a series of little rooms upstairs in […]

  • Erika Raskin wrote a new post 7 years ago

    The quarterly meeting of Streetlight’s editorial staff had just ended. It was a particularly uplifting one. It’s incredibly gratifying to be part of a team that is committed to ushering art into the world. We tac […]

  • Trudy wrote a new post 7 years ago

    Sometimes, modern life feels dried out and far away from what nourishes. In our chase to connect, we climb ladders that promise better tomorrows and disconnect from what feels good under our feet. We forget the […]

  • Erika Raskin wrote a new post 7 years ago

    Doris said, “Seems like it might snow. First of the season.”

    She turned from where she stood in front of the kitchen window and looked at Martin. He was sitting at the table holding a nearly full glass of mil […]

  • Last month, as we celebrated our daughter’s 17th birthday, it struck me that we would enjoy only one more birthday celebration together as a family unit before she heads off to college. Her birthday falls in O […]

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    The familiar constriction arose in her chest. She followed the dark echoes of her husband’s steps; his gait sober as cold coffee. Heel, toe. March. She giggled at the image of her husband as a soldier. Hi […]

  • What a loving tribute to Ann and a “memento mori”
    for us all.
    Thank you.

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