Kimm Brockett Stammen

January 2026 | fiction

Waves

The ship wasn’t rocking, still there was a sensation of lilting movement,

of repeated unbalancing and rebalancing,

as she leaned over the railing and reached out to the waves far below.

The instant before he approached, she felt that someone would approach.

He, on the other hand, as he said later, barely knew what was happening, before, during or after.

Their spouses were generally the planners.

Like all their vacations, her husband and his wife had arranged the cruise.

Their spouses didn’t plan this.

The four of them met at horse shoes on the second day, and since then had done much together: dined on huge Scampi, explored overrun harbor towns, laughed sparsely at a comedy show. A continent separated the two couples, but attitude and circumstance made them compatible, and also, as is always the case with compatibility: values. They believed in love and loyalty, and had thought the two as complementary as sea and sky, past and future.  On each of their monogamies depended entire infrastructures of children, families, careers, houses, investments, vacations, pets, landscapings, plans.

“Beautiful,” he said as he leant next to her against the railing.

And she knew he meant the evening and the ocean,

the breeze and the sensation of floating far from the tethering land—

but she also knew, or hoped, or knew what was meant by her hoping, that he meant her.

They fell in love.

They fell in love and they loved.

They fell in love and they loved and there seemed to be no choice at all.

Is there ever?

Ten years later, in a hotel in a midwestern city, where they could each stop over occasionally on the way to elsewhere, they were naked together. Even as memory, their nakedness always stunned: a green flash of recognition at sunset or sunrise; a breech from ocean sleep; a perpetual instant of waking.  They talked over once and again all their inevitable subjects: commitment, hopelessness, incongruence, boat-rocking. How their infrastructures—teens and young adults, aging parents, retirements, downsizings, dividends, vacations, small mounds interspersed in their landscapes, more plans—continued, and yet they two who supported those infrastructures were infinitely different. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they been these people all along, these awful people, and had just needed each other to learn it.

“It’s time,” she said, and he knew before she said it that she would say it.

She, on the other hand, barely knew what she was saying.

Still, they took other cruises, there were other lilting sensations, sometimes they reached out, or remembered reaching out, or sensed that they would—unbalancing and rebalanced—reach out from their opposite sides of the continent, to the waves.

Kimm Brockett Stammen

Kimm Brockett Stammen’s story collection, In a Country Whose Language I Have Never Mastered, was a finalist for the Iron Horse Book Contest and the 2022 Eludia Award. Her writings have appeared or are forthcoming in Chautauqua, december, CARVE, Pembroke, Prime Number, and over thirty other literary magazines, and her work has been nominated for Pushcart, Best Short Fiction, and Best Microfiction anthologies. She holds an MFA from the Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Creative and Professional Writing at Spalding University. kimmbrockettstammen.wordpress.com

Robert Miner

January 2026 | fiction

The general’s family selects an earth spirit for his mausoleum

Tang Dynasty, China

 May I say you bring great honor to the artisans of our studio by seeking our earth spirits for the general’s tomb?

The widow, sitting on a stone bench with her two sons, nodded solemnly at the ceramic workshop director.

The general is much admired as a fierce defender of the empire. The story of how he led the charge of his outnumbered troops against the rebel army will be passed down from generation to generation. Who can help but be thrilled by the way he urged his steed forward alone against the enemy line, slashing his way through stunned warriors, straight for the opposing general? One must marvel at his audacity and his courage as he vanquished the enemy’s leader, chopped off his head, tied it to his horse’s mane and rode along the front lines, terrifying the enemy and rallying his men to a bloody and glorious victory.

The widow turned pale. The older son gave a slight cough.

My apologies. Of course, you would prefer in this time to remember the general as the loving and devoted father and husband I am sure he was when not on the battlefield.

The widow stared down at her feet.

May I show you a few examples of earth spirits created by our artisans? Our grave-quelling spirits stand guard at the entrances of the tombs of hundreds of the honored dead, the first choice of emperors and noblemen. As you can see, our statues are finished with tri-colored Sancai glaze and come in many designs to ward off malevolent spirts. Our earth spirits combine the features of numerous animals into a figure to inspire fear in any enemy – tiger fangs, eagle talons, dragon tails. A warrior like the general with a lifetime of heroic deeds must have left many enemies defeated and broken. I fear their spirits could seek revenge in the afterlife. We must prevent these spirits from disturbing the peace of

the general so he will be a source of blessing and good fortune to what we all wish to be many generations of descendants.

The two sons nodded vigorously.

When selecting a design, it is important to remember our figures do more than protect against malevolent spirits getting in – they also prevent the spirit of the departed from getting out.

The widow drew a sharp breath.

Keep in mind that each of us has two souls. The soul that embodies our intellect, our spiritual self, ascends into the heavens. Our other soul, the one that animates our bodies, fuels our emotions, drives our earthly desires, stays with the body. Our earth spirits are crafted to keep these souls from leaving their tombs and walking the earth, re-visiting where they once lived and drawing near those with whom their lives intertwined.

The younger son and the widow looked at each other with alarm.

May I presume to suggest you consider our strongest and most fearsome figure? It is a little more costly, but it is the most powerful of all our earth spirits. I believe it befits a man of the general’s character and reputation. It has three horns growing from its head, the snout and fangs of a boar, and muscular arms and legs that end in deadly claws. A venomous snake encircles its arm. And, its entire body is engulfed in flames. The final touch is that it stands astride the body of a defeated monster subdued by its powers. I believe such an earth spirit will quell any disturbance and allow the general to sleep in the peace he deserves and for which you pray.

The older son leaned forward. Yes, our family will take two of those.

Robert Miner

Robert Miner is a Houston-based writer. He is a former political consultant who works in government affairs on energy policy. Follow him @robertminerpoetry on Instagram.