Coming Soon! A collection of nonfiction works by Stephanie Harrison: Men from a Broken Country

Lists

Every time Lily opens the windows to let in the salt-sea air, dozens of her lists--they're scrawled on the backs of envelopes or torn from spiral ring notebooks--blow about the house like small kites, then settle to the floor with a sad sashay; he teases her about this, the grocery list (broccoli, bread, capers) in the bathtub, the movie recommendations (Beyond the Clouds, Larks on a String, anything with Charles Laughton) between the cushions of the couch, but his tone implies that this is an allowable eccentricity, until he finds, beside the toaster, a notebook containing a list of names, and then he butters his toast and pours himself a cup of coffee, and sits down at the breakfast table to tell her again that he's too old to have more children, that he's already had a family, and didn't they have an agreement, and she listens and nods, and her grief feels unanchored, like dandelion fluff, and for months afterward, she is tempted to do what many have done before her, but she doesn't, instead she hopes he'll change his mind, and time passes, and she adds more names to the list, and attends, when invited, other women's baby showers, and buys them pretty pink and blue gifts, and then one day, she notices that her grief is no longer a floating thing, but has begun rolling through her, like a round, hard pellet, and that's the day she stops adding names to the list, and begins, instead, once a month, to cross them off.

©Stephanie Harrison, appeared first in Northwest Review

Selected Works

You crossed the line, my friend Ann tells me. Iím visiting her in California. Weíve borrowed a trailer perched on a small mountain so that we can have a quiet place to write. Now Iím trying to explain why I canít focus, why my nerves are so jangly. Why I can only take short, shallow breaths ...
He reads Ragtime while being poisoned by a nurse with a woodpecker tattooed on her ankle, and afterwards he describes this to Lily over hamburgers and beer--he is ravenous (go figure)--and she chuckles...
Effortless, like floating in the Great Salt Lake. Forty years ago, as a boy, Zach McKenna did this while on vacation in Utah, and he's never forgotten the sensation of lying still on the surface of the water, arms and legs spread wide, perfectly buoyant. Lately he's been thinking that in the span of a lifetime, these moments are too...
This is how I remember it: I'm ten or eleven, lounging with my cousins and Aunt Corinne on her sun porch. She's wearing a pink Chanel-style dress, like Jackie Kennedy, and she's sipping iced tea from a hot-pink metal tumbler. She's just discovered, she tells usthat someone is living in her house while she and my uncle are at work. Her crossed legs are bare and one of them jiggles up and down while she talks. As she grows more excited--telling us about her strange feeling, the little things she couldn't put her finger on...