Somewhere I heard the expression “teaching the dead to talk with us.” I don’t think, really, that’s quite what was said. I don’t know that “the dead” were involved at all. But the minute I thought it, I knew I had a story.
I’ve been watching shark videos and reels in the way many people watch funny cats or goats in pajamas. I see people who are shark experts swimming with sharks. I admire them.
And I wonder if there are consequences to messing with the order of things.
I don’t have the answers. Just a story. Here it is.
No secret that I love fairytales and folklore. Different cultures bring different flavor. In Irish fairy and folk tales, you’ll find a grimly manic humor in the darker stories. A common thread that comes all the way from the epics through the fairy stories is the concept of lost time. While you are in the thrall of the ghost or in the fairy glamour, time marches on and you are outside it. When you return to your senses, you will find the world has changed—maybe only fractionally—if you are lucky—but changed all the same. I had that idea in mind when I wrote this story.
Jinx. From Feed Literary Magazine
This one is published in Feed Literary Magazine, and I’m so grateful to them for giving two of my micros a home in the same issue!
The video is from the end of September, 2023. I was on my way from Archon, a sci-fi fantasy convention held in Collinsville, Illinois (home of the world’s largest catsup bottle) to the Grubville Opry, a listening room in Dittmer, Missouri, to hear my songwriter husband, Tim Crosby, play. I was at Archon for the first time because Jonathan Maberry was there. He’s a writing hero of mine. He’s incredibly talented, and staggeringly prolific. He’s got a great work ethic to match his talent, and he’s super cool to his fans. I had a great time at Archon. A fantastic group of people—friendly, creative, supportive of each other… the kind of people you hope you find at a convention when you know no one when you show up.
I filmed the reading alongside the Meramec River in Missouri. I stopped at the Minnie Ha Ha Park in Sunset Hills, Missouri to take a walking break. It turned into a filming break. There’s a little bit of background noise—it’s a popular park! The crow, pileated woodpecker, and black snake clips are from Coyote Creek (my backyard).
In light of my recent adventure, I feel compelled to point out that the story in this reading is fiction. It’s not based on any of the stories I told myself about my birth parents as I was growing up, or as a young woman, or even recently. The story is from a writing prompt, and I allowed myself to be silly. Sillier than usual, that is.
But wait, what recent adventure? you ask. Oh, friends. Big adventure.
I shall have more to say about it later. For now, let me say simply: I met my family. My birth family. My biological family. The people whose genes I share, the people I look like, walk like, laugh like, and am like in some very important ways.
The additional footage in this reading is all of Lake Michigan, but it’s from both the east and west shores. From Sheboygan, Wisconsin, where I spent some time with my sister on my father’s side, and with my amazing nieces and even grand-nieces, and with my brother-in-law. These are some strong women, and artistic, and kind, and my sister is possibly worse than I am about making a beeline across a parking lot or beach to pet a dog.
There are also scenes from Escanaba and Manistique in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We drove north from Sheboygan, through the bottom of the U.P., over the Mackinac Bridge, and into Up North Michigan to meet for the first time my siblings on my mother’s side, and to visit with a cousin on that side I’d met previously.
So much talking and laughing! So many stories! And questions, some of which even were answered—on all sides. I met two brothers and two sisters, and have one brother yet to meet.
I’m still processing it all. But I do know I am blessed. Adoption stories are complicated, and emotional, and often involve secrecy and mystery and half-truths. The investigation is an emotional rollercoaster. In my case, it’s truly a blessing. I’m grateful.
This is my second reading for the Best Microfiction 2023 virtual launch. I love seeing the different approaches all the writers take to presenting their stories. I like to hear how a writer presents a story, how they placed the emphasis in a sentence or how they read a bit of dialogue. It can make me consider a story a whole new way.
This reading is from a bluff favored by rappelers in Giant City State Park. It’s a great place for a micro-hike, as it only takes a few minutes to get to the top of the bluff. Also, the meadow at the bottom really shows off the height of the bluff nicely. It’s not mountains, but it sure is beautiful.
The story first appeared in 805 Lit + Art. I’m so grateful for it’s first home, and also that they nominated the story for Best Microfiction—and of course that the Best Microfiction editors chose it!
This story started in one of my writing groups, and used a newspaper story as inspiration. I read at Giant City State Park, which is part of the Shawnee National Forest. This is the Post Oak Trail, which is the most accessible trail in the park. That wooden railing behind me is built over a bluff. There are four playgrounds in Giant City. I used to bring my son there when he was little.
The story was inspired by a photo of Lon Chaney Jr. in costume for The Wolfman, sitting patiently while a stylist fixed his hair.
The reading is at Walker’s Bluff, a winery in the area. I walked across the grounds to an outdoor area that is rarely used now that they’ve moved into the second and pending third phase of development. It’s a beautiful area near a manmade lake, dotted with clusters of live edge tables and chairs that put me in mind of sitting amidst mushrooms. There’s a small building there that housed the wine bar that I think may be empty now.
I used to live near the area, on Hill Road, at Broken Branch, when my son was small. I had Merlin then, and a Curly Peruvian Paso for Dylan named Crocodile. Odin the German Shepherd rounded out our household, along with the occasional volunteer cat. The house was nothing to speak of, but we had 15 fenced acres surrounding it. I could hear the horses grazing outside my bedroom window at night. We were brokity-broke-broke, but those were good times.
A teenaged girl used to ride her Haflinger horse past the house. If I was home and available, I or Dylan and I would ride with her. I showed her the trails along the Big Muddy River and the field roads I had permission to ride, and she showed me a beautiful field with rolling hills. One day she said to me: “This is the last time we’ll be able to ride here. My aunt is going to turn this into a winery.”
We have an official wine region here, the Shawnee Hills AVA. So I knew it was possible. But I had no idea the scope or the vision! Walker’s Bluff is now a winery with a tasting room and outdoor patio area. And a wine cave. And an upscale restaurant. And, coming soon, a casino-resort. My favorite area, though, is still that first outdoor area.
Other B-roll in the reading is from a trip a year ago to Albuquerque, New Mexico to spend Christmas with my stepson, stationed at a nearby U.S. Air Force base. We took a day trip to Santa Fe, where we strolled around the art district and checked out the Meow Wolf exhibit (which, by the way, I highly recommend).
Used to be, I couldn’t sleep with my back to a room. I had to have my bed shoved up against the wall, and my back had to be to that wall—touching it, even. I’m a little easier about that now. I’ll roll over in the night without waking up in full freak-out mode.
But I still must have a blanket on, no matter how hot it is. Over my ankles, at least. My knees. Because monsters. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about—at least some of you have a similar fear.
I don’t know the rules monsters follow. And I don’t know why some people aren’t now or never were afraid of breaking monster rules. Reckless. Because monsters remember. They might not get you right away, the moment you transgress. They might wait years. The breaking of the rules gives then an in—even if you only slipped up just the one time.
Just the One Time by Epiphany Ferrell
I read this story on a boulder in the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River. Some of the footage is from trails either in the Smokies or Blue Ridge Mountains. Just the One Time first appeared in Ghost Parachute.
I apologize for the snap, crackle and pop. I couldn’t bear not to use this reading even though there are some sound issues. Working on it!
This is a funny sort of story to read on my honeymoon—the story of a new bride or bride-to-be who escapes into the ocean.
I’m not planning any such escape.
But I do find jellyfish interesting. They can be so beautiful in the water, so peculiar washed up on the beach. They thrive, evidently, in exactly the kind of conditions caused by warming oceans—increased acidification and decreased oxygen—that hurts pretty much everything else. What a strange thing to contemplate, a reversal of evolution, the resurrection of invertebrate dominance.
All of that flowed into the story of radical reclamation of agency.
This video was made at Gulf Shores, Alabama. The beach was sparsely populated, and was just perfect for strolling in the surf, or for sitting and reading this story out loud.
This story was a finalist in a monthly flash competition at Retreat West.
Look at this jellyfish! It looks like a sand dollar! Also, I need to learn to size photos…
And here’s how we honeymoon. I recorded three readings on the beach. Tim played two open mics.
This day there was very little beach traffic despite it being a beautiful day. Off-season is definitely the right time to visit the Gulf Shores.
I wrote this story for a 53-word contest. I didn’t win… but I also couldn’t see adding any more words to it. It was the way I wanted it in just that many words. I sent it later to Mojave River Review.
I have a love – fear relationship with sharks. I love them, but I am absolutely terrified of them. I suppose Jaws might be partly to blame, but mostly it’s the facts that get to me. I’ve watched dozens of documentaries and film clips, and while I accept that sharks — even big ones — don’t go swimming around looking to eat people (they are successful hunters, if they wanted to eat more people, they would), they still scare me.
Real reason? They come to me in my dreams as sort of a “yeah I already know that” warning that things are chaotic in my subconscious. They are the only animal out of the many I dream about that speaks to me in English.
The dream where a shark spoke the most clearly came when I was quite young. I dreamed a shark was above me in the water, a Great White that time though I often dream of Blue Sharks. I swam down to a ship wreck to hide – and idea of dubious merit. The shark said, “I’m going to get you!” And I replied, “No, you won’t!” He said something else but I don’t remember what. Probably if I remembered, I’d be famous or something. But, as in a fairytale I failed the test. Perhaps.
Epiphany Ferrell 