Churchgoing by Jenny Feldon
I go to churches because they’re quiet. The world is too loud. The first time I went, I was hiding. I’d been paying for a flat white at the café near my old office when my ex-fiancé and his…
I go to churches because they’re quiet. The world is too loud. The first time I went, I was hiding. I’d been paying for a flat white at the café near my old office when my ex-fiancé and his…
The night before I start treatment at Harrington, Raffi and I go to Foxy Night at the Cock in the East Village. We have to wait in line to get in. It’s eleven, and it’s dark, but it’s lit-up city…
She said she wanted me to meet her parents up in Squamish the week after I came back and that if I wanted to die it would be okay, but only after I meet her parents. So we drove…
My daughter, Savi, instructs me to wear shoes when I go for my morning walk. She says it’s not considered exercise otherwise. I tell her my toes feel imprisoned in shoes and slide my feet into chappals before I…
I ended it in Chicago, when the snow bloomed in every direction and plows passed over and over across the major roads like blunted razors. It was no use; people abandoned cars in the middle of streets. Cafés shuttered.…
CRAFT is thrilled to welcome Alan Heathcock as guest judge for our 2022 Short Fiction Prize. Heathcock is the author of Volt, a collection of short stories from 2011, and 40, a debut novel that publishes on August 2,…
Thank you for your submission. We must begin with the lines—far too restated in this piece. Like I’ve mentioned before, a good artist looks more at their subject than at the paper. Think about what your mind is naturally…
I am humming along to Lucky Dube’s voice over the radio on the windowpane. The cavernous room swallows his tenor, leaving his words bare, airy, like scattered feathers in the sun. I do not know what it means to…
By Lee Upton • Probably like many writers I’m protective toward my characters—even though I put them in impossible situations or give them unfulfillable longings. I pretty much pickle them in vulnerability. Sometimes I let them avoid any action…
Content Warning—miscarriage, childbirth I wake up to a uterus on the pillow next to mine. It looks vaguely like the image I saw on the pamphlet when I was browsing for birth control. I close my eyes again. The dull,…
I once read that a woman’s body knows when it is of “child-bearing age.” And sometimes, it punishes a childless woman with more painful period cramps. Sometimes, it might be due to stress; sometimes, just a visceral reaction to the news.
Usually, I start my stories from a single image. A vegetarian not belonging at a pig roast. A uterus that has detached itself from a woman’s body. If the image feels compelling, I start from there and try to add some characters and spin a plot around it.
When I started writing this story, I just wanted to explore the relationship between a woman and her uterus. It was going to be a flash fiction piece about a woman whose uterus had somehow detached itself from her body. She now had to process how she felt about not having a uterus anymore. But when I got to that part, I was stuck. I couldn’t come up with a reasonable ending to the story. I didn’t know how to take the story forward. Usually, when I felt this way, I leaned even more into magical realism and surrealism to tell the story. But this time, this approach felt inauthentic.
I began to journal around that time. As I wrote about this story and my own feelings, I realized things were never simple. The protagonist could feel both guilty and relieved. The realization that she no longer had the option of having a baby, even if she wanted to someday, complicated everything. I realized I was processing my own rage at what was happening around me and the lingering internal conflict as I acknowledged my bodily autonomy. I had to explore this intimate and personal space before taking another step forward.
It became clear that I was focusing on the wrong things. The visuals that stayed with me—the detached uterus, the pig roast—were never the point. The ideas of who belongs in motherhood, who’s allowed to have children, and who’s ready for it financially, emotionally, and physically made their way into the narrative. I needed to identify these central themes and what they truly meant to me in order to finish telling this story.
NEERU NAGARAJAN is an Indian Tamil writer. Her fiction has appeared in The Maine Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Stonecoast Review, GASHER, and elsewhere. She’s @poonaikaari on Twitter.