Works

Flesh Undone

You realize you don’t have a baby book for your son. What if something happens to you and there’s no baby book? For 22 years, you’ve kept the photos, footprints, and plastic hospital bracelets in a box, somewhat organized. Still, there are no dates or milestones written on the back. You remember why, what survival
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Rato Must Twirl

If Huckleberry Finn ever came back to earth as a cat, then I think I knew him. His name was Rato. Rat. O. You got it. Orange, scrappy and dotted with freckled scabs around his mouth, Rato wasn’t born with any sense. But somehow this ginger cat found his way onto our land. Unwanted, pure and simple,
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A New Bitterroot

I. My new stepfather liked to circle the classifieds, always checking if there was an accessory he could add to his new family to make us more hip, more exciting. He thought our lives dull until we met him, especially poor old Frank across the street who pumped our bike tires. Frank would sit on
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Scrub Defined

I. I learned about the word “migrant” from a pinkish redneck in a plaid shirt. “You know what we’re going find out here don’t you, little girlie,” he said partly to me and partly to the scrub palmetto he motioned to with a burly freckled arm. He had stumpy stained nicotine teeth and curly bristly
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How to Climb an Airboat Cage

It’s a date, or rather, three’s a crowd. My sister’s boyfriend, Cary Boy, will swing by our place Saturday morning at seven for a cruise on his airboat. It’s my job to make ham sandwiches and “stay the hell out of the way,” my sister Katy’s mantra ladled with the rich venom only homecoming queens
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Crab Promise

I told Mother that the fresh sheets of dry wall lining our barn’s feed room didn’t reach all the way to the ceiling – things were figuring a way in. But the smooth gray panels looked fresh for a while, until the snakes, spiders and other critters snuck past. Mother and I tried to make that
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Grasping The Reins For a Ride to Freedom

Hazy steam rises from the stallion’s back as he snorts and sashays across the entrance to the track. I reach down to pat his dark, damp shoulder, and I can feel his muscles rippling under my palm. I breathe deeply, inhaling the sweet mustiness of hay, horses and Florida dew. I can do this. Or
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Antlers in the Grass

The beefy woman on the big black horse in front of me seemed to sway her hips extravagantly from side to side, as if on purpose. Her kind gelding dutifully lowered his head and continued to stride smoothly through tall summer grasses and crushed wildflowers. There I was in thrift chic denim glory – surrounded
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Swamp Angel Stomp

“Swamp Angel Stomp” was selected as a finalist in the 2013 VanderMey Nonfiction Prize sponsored by Ruminate Magazine.
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Copyright © 2017 Kerri Dieffenwierth