judith cockman

Short Stories

Pit Stop

Pit Stop

He drove into her life.

There were a few dents in his doors and the exhaust pipe was about to fall off, but her front porch consisted of a broken, one-step stoop to a vintage trailer and a thirsty petunia, so no-one was lookin’ anyway.    (more…)

OCTOBER 1952

OCTOBER 1952

The air disturbs as her husband enters the room. Doffs his grey hat, holds it to his heart like a shield. The family beside her titters in admiration. He beams. Pulls on his little mustache. Alights on the one who’s cuddling the infant, the oldest woman in the lot.

“And is this Yours?” He turns a twinkling eye to the old gal, inviting her appreciation.

“No no!” she blushes.  “This is my son’s! His second daughter. I am just the gram mamma.”

“The gram mamma!!!!” Earl splutters. “And you don’t look a day over 30!”

The family bobbles like a flotilla of clowns, chortling. Seals in a fish storm. Loretta stiffens in her sallow gown. Tries to hide her swollen belly, willing him to come to her. With a flourish of his hat toward the mom in the bed, he turns to his wife. All sparkle drying into sand.   (more…)

Little Mighty and the Poet Giant

It was a sea of people, swaying with wine.  Finger food passing along the crests like delicate foam crustaceans. A celebration of the poets’ ephemeral regard in this world of hard liquor, soft food and mountains to climb.

He bobbed along, begrudging the humility it required of him to tread water in such a crowd. She couldn’t help but notice, his imperial crown shining so high above the waves. He looked tired from it all, but unwilling to forgo the possibility of recognition, she supposed.

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The Body Remembers

The Body Remembers

Her head is a spaceship. Lift-off involuntary. Escaping backwards in time, without matter. Matter meaning skull and bones. Flesh and eyeball. Matter meaning mattering at all whether she makes sense of it.

Memory awakens with each wave of molecular displacement …

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