Short stories by Jerry Windley-Daoust.
Here’s a short story I wrote in the spring of 2020 about the editor of a small-town newspaper whose recent cancer diagnosis causes him to re-think his definition of “news.” Someday, I hope to write a longer work about Jeremiah and the staff of The Weekly Whisperer. In the meantime, enjoy! Jerry Jeremiah Madison Peach…
Ransom was so small that the state highway department noted its existence only by the SPEED LIMIT 25 sign on the way into town and the SPEED LIMIT 55 sign on the way out. Lacey was on her way out, and she had no intention of keeping any speed limits. It was a summer’s morning just after dawn, the road was empty, and her windows were rolled down. She wanted to feel the wind on her face as she left Ransom, a small place for small people. She wanted to fly.
THE RIVER FLOWS SOUTH, AND ALL THE FLOWING WATERS OF half a continent run to it — morning dew, whole gray-white fields of melting snow, rain running down rooftops and cascading through the leaves of trees, rivulets in the streets, brooks and streams and creeks and tributaries — all wash clean over the people and the land, drawing together in the broad and heavy river that pushes south. Even teardrops move to find solace in the warm southern sea; shed too many tears, and they will bear your soul along with them. A loose enough body might follow, only half aware of the currents that carry it along.
The crab apple tree was in full bloom, glowing white in the moonlight. Cathy stood underneath it, her small mouth slightly agape as she looked up into a galaxy of blossoms. She was dressed in a pink flannel nightgown and she could feel the dew from the grass soaking through her slippers.
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