Skip to main content

Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
Contact Us





by John Oliver Hodges



The man looks at his wife in the morning beside him in the bed, and starts bawling, his hands covering his face like spiders clinging to a rock in a storm.  She looks over at him, and with a faint restriction of lids around eye whites, says, “I can’t even count how many times I’ve gone into the bathroom and cried and bitten my knuckle and banged my head on the wall over what you call my trivialities.”  The scorn in her voice causes the spiders to slide away some, and through their legs he sees her walk to the bathroom. He hears her doing her morning things: brushing her teeth, washing her face, applying makeup.  When she has left the house, the man enters the bathroom, finds her pink diaphragm case, and opens it.





by John Oliver Hodges



He doesn’t eat.  He’s lost twenty pounds.  When he doesn’t show up for class, will somebody come to the house, knock on the door, and feel worried?  His car will be parked outside, so what the hell?  And what’s that smell?  When the summer began, a large possum crawled under the house and died.  When the smell first hit them, he was too distraught to mention it, and she didn’t either. Flies attacked the house.  They left that thing under there for two weeks before he called somebody to fish it out.  It was the size of a dog, the guy said, and with a tiny sly smile said, “Rigor mortis has set in.”  She made secret plans, and by the end of summer left him for a tile installer, a man she met on Facebook, and he was no longer hungry.