Ann Wuehler Archives - Black Hare Press

Belt and Bear

October 24, 2023/by Shawna Rowan

by Ann Wuehler

I shivered inside my human skin. My mother fell to the floor, my father bending over her, his belt in his fist. She took several blows, hiding her face, quiet, not even grunting as my father would strike harder if she whimpered.

My face grew a snout. My body bent, locked into place. Fur sprouted from my skin. My teeth grew long, my fingernails became claws. My mother told me to stop, but the bear in me attacked my father, killed him and partially devoured him.

She screamed, her grief a strange mystery to the daughter who had saved her.

Ann Wuehler

Ann Wuehler has written five novels: Aftermath: Boise, Idaho, Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane, the House on Clark Boulevard, Oregon Gothic, the Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. “The Blackburne Lighthouse” appears in Brigid Gate’s Crimson Bones anthology. “Invisible Greta” appears in the Whistle Pig, Volume 15.

Stinking Dirt

August 12, 2023/by Shawna Rowan

by Ann Wuehler

My firstborn crawls out of the hole I dug with my strong hands beneath Snakestone Bridge. I pant beneath the arch of stone and rotting wood. Her tiny hands grip my out-flung arm. I wince but keep still as she slices my finger with her new sharp teeth, as she feeds from that slice, suckling. I turn my head—my naked, dirty child, stillborn, but now alive, alive.

Bury her beneath the old bridge, my granny told me. In the stinking dirt, yes.

My baby crouches on my chest, my own blood dripping on my skin. Her smile delights me.

Ann Wuehler

WAR

September 30, 2020/by Black Hare Press

War horror

YEAR FIVE

January 11, 2020/by Black Hare Press

YEAR SIX

January 10, 2020/by Black Hare Press

Tag Archive for: Ann Wuehler

I shivered inside my human skin. My mother fell to the floor, my father bending over her, his belt in his fist. She took several blows, hiding her face, quiet, not even grunting as my father would strike harder if she whimpered.

My face grew a snout. My body bent, locked into place. Fur sprouted from my skin. My teeth grew long, my fingernails became claws. My mother told me to stop, but the bear in me attacked my father, killed him and partially devoured him.

She screamed, her grief a strange mystery to the daughter who had saved her.

Bury her beneath the old bridge, my granny told me. In the stinking dirt, yes.

My baby crouches on my chest, my own blood dripping on my skin. Her smile delights me.