Dagmar Goeschick
Stories (112)
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The Calm Before Nothing
I woke with a headache in the middle of the night in 1981, the kind that seemed to have hands and knew exactly where to press. It was a hot summer, the kind that made the curtains hang like tired flags and the air taste faintly of metal. For four weeks the thermometer had refused to sink below thirty-five degrees Celsius, even in the shade. The sky had been a relentless blue bowl without cracks.
By Dagmar Goeschick5 days ago in Fiction
The Better Man
They called her Mother, Witch, Angel, and once—only once, to her face—sir, Mary Ann Bickerdyke. It was in a burned-out courthouse in Tennessee, windows punched open by cannon fire, when a Union quartermaster mistook Mary Ann Bickerdyke for a man because she stood where men stood and spoke the way orders wished they could speak for themselves. When he realized his error, he laughed. When he finished laughing, she was still standing there, arms folded, eyes steady, waiting for him to answer her question about the missing bandages.
By Dagmar Goeschickabout a month ago in Fiction
