“He steered our friendly chit-chat steamy; I felt that same guilt-soaked titillation I’d experienced when, years earlier, I’d first discovered my dad’s porn stash.” Ann Henry-Callahan scores her online dates.
“But he had a way of talking, soft and reverent – presumably the same voice he used in the confessional booth – that smacked of intimacy, and emotional intelligence, and wisdom; the depths of which a hedonistic sinner like me could only imagine.” New fiction from Ann Henry-Callahan.
What Ann Henry-Callahan should have said.
“Betty always had cold beer, fresh-baked cookies, and a stack of games ready to play. She also collected chickens. Ceramic chickens, wooden chickens, china chickens, and fabric chickens perched on the shelves and most free space around the kitchen and wandered into the dining room.”
“Bored kid this summer. / Mom’s contemplating a drink. / Stop jumping on me.” New poetry from Ann Henry-Callahan.
“staring slackjawed / at me on my John Deere / rattling weaving roaring / ignoring borders” New poetry from Ann Henry-Callahan.