| Barbara-Stewart.com is
a fiction
and essay writer living in the Catskill Mountains. Born and raised
in upstate New York, she spent eight years in Wichita, KS, where
she earned an MFA and founded LineSight Gallery, before
returning to her home state last summer. Her recent projects include Walking
After Midnight, Corroded & Other
Stories, and Bright Young Hopefuls |
Fiction
Published in the 2004 issue of Mikrokosmos
Published in the Sept-Oct 2001 issue of The North American Review
Published in the Spring 2002 issue of Writer's Bloc
Published in Issue 3 of Whimperbang
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Non-Fiction
Published in the Spring 2002 issue of The Shocker
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News
Update complete. The snappy new site can run faster and jump higher.
8.01.05
Wichita's over. July 2005, moved to Delhi, NY, a village located in the western foothills of the Catskill Mountains.
Featured Story
Slots
“Must be old folks' day,” Steve said.
Dorothy looked at him sideways, through her good eye. Her slot arm was primed. She’d been working it all week, first with a soup can, then with the dumbbell Steve found at Kmart. Before the accident, she’d played Blackjack, never slots, except to feed the machines on her way to the tables. It was hard managing bets from a wheelchair. Her left arm was useless.
“You feeling okay?” Steve said.
Dorothy nodded. Her head hurt. Her head always hurt.
Steve stopped the car and unloaded the wheelchair. He put Dorothy in a windbreaker and put her purse in her lap. “You warm enough?” he said. He kissed her head and said her hair smelled nice. She’d had it washed and set for the trip.
“Don’t be long,” she said.
He left her in front of the fountain and drove off, looking for a place to park. He must've known something was wrong. The whole ride out she’d faced the side window, pretending to sleep. It wasn’t like her not to talk. She'd try harder. Everything was good. The leaves were turning. They’d eaten breakfast on the road. Everyone told them Foxwoods paid better than Mohegan.
A man in golf pants stopped to talk. “First time here?” he said.
Dorothy said, “Yes.”
“You’ll like it,” he said. “Try the buffet.”
A shuttle
pulled up and Dorothy glimpsed herself in the windows—the gray windbreaker, the wind lifting her
hair. Sometimes she’d see herself the way others saw her and had
to look away. Her sons blamed Steve, the youngest one especially. It
was an accident, the other driver crossing the divide. The engine went
through
the firewall. Thirty years and they still gave him the cold shoulder.