Robin Littell holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her flash fiction has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Baltimore Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, and others. Originally from the flat part of northern Ohio, she now lives in southern Ohio near a river, a nature preserve, and a gorge carved into the earth by glacier water 18,000 years ago. You can read more of her work at robinlittell.com.
1. People who live near the ocean become accustomed to its moods, its temper tantrums, its contentment. They are willing to forgive the bodies of decaying fish and green-turned-brown seaweed that wash up on its shores and swelter in the summer humidity. They are willing to forgive because soon the ocean will be calm and blue. The sunlight will make… Read more →
We spilled some of her ashes on our way through the woods. The weight of the urn tore a hole in the backpack, and the urn hit the ground hard, knocking the lid loose. She had been gone a while, but it came to us that our favorite spot, a quiet bank by the river, was a good resting place…. Read more →
“The river keeps rising. We should go,” I tell him. We sit on the porch and watch it ebb closer to its banks, to our front yard. I have already packed. It will take Mike longer. He never throws anything away. Everything will seem valuable, full of memories, mostly bad, but it won’t matter. “You can, Jo. I’m not leaving,”… Read more →