Photo by Amaury Gutierrez on Unsplash

I stand by the car with my hand on the door. Streetlights and porch lights dot the neighborhood like little halos of indifference. Lazy, robotic mules on a rope, blinking in circles of white and yellow light. I look at the lights while the voices file into the car. First…

There is the one friend who loses herself in the men she dates. And another friend who never dates. There is one in a round body with lumpy sides. An excessive appetitive and lots of wine. Loud, red, purple, and gross. One with black body hair and a bold face…

Photo by Alfred Kenneally on Unsplash

A flyaway ember as small as a gnat aims for my jacket. It lands on my arm. I seal the wound with duct tape.

After the fire diminishes in intensity and most of the brush has been consumed, we have less to do.

My mother takes my daughter for a…

Photo by Stefan Widua on Unsplash

Tonight, like every night, is cold. The men huddle around the fire in jackets and jeans. Tight wool caps hug their heads.

Tall pines encircle them, as rigid and alert as totem poles, with bushy black branches that narrow into windows to reveal a thousand white stars. …

Jessica Zeek Krebsbach

I write about marriage, motherhood, existence, nature, and other invisible things. Visit me on Read more on

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