Jen Harvey

Fiction

  • Monday Morning, Seven Fifteen

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    Jen

    At seven forty-five the car will bleep with a flash of orange lights, followed by the front door opening. Two girls, young still, will stumble out onto the driveway, while behind, their mother, laden with school bags and harried – though not dishevelled, she is never dishevelled – will fumble with the keys and shout,…

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  • Unfurl

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    Jen

    They cling to the branches a little longer this year, and it takes a second storm to scatter them. One rainy morning she rakes them into a pile, and the loamy smell sparks a memory. Abby’s voice caught in the drizzle. “I never know if this is the beginning or the end.”

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  • Imagined words for snow and ice

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    Jen

    ‘Cumulospiration,’ he said, and watched as she stretched out her hand and tried to grasp it. A small sigh as it vanished. ‘Gone,’ she said. And he shared her disappointment.

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  • Now is the time to cross the line

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    Jen

    I drew a line of my own, but did not tell you. It followed the contours and undulations of your steadfast delineation. Rising and falling in parallel. Stretching forward to the horizon, to a point where the world falls beyond reach.

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  • A Teacup Can Exist Without Your Gaze

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    Jen

    You could never know, of course, what a china cup could mean to someone. She knew that as she watched you drink and place the cup back in its saucer, casually, as if a cup was just a cup.

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