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September 26, 2026 – 7:39 The fog looks the way snow does when it blows across the lake in January. I ought to be able to say it—show it—better than that. But I can’t. Not today. The light from the big yellow sun eases the chill that’s crept in overnight. And the dogs sleep. Even…
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My short story “Killdeer” has been published in Volume 41.3 of The MacGuffin. On a cold elementary-school playground, a boy watches cruelty unfold—and discovers that telling the truth does not mean an adult will listen. What remains is a yellow marble pressed into his hand. The September 2026 issue is available for purchase now. https://tinyurl.com/2aytuvu8
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Read here: https://floatingacornreview.com/2026/09/08/grand-lake-minus-five-kj-stevens/ Thanks to the team at Floating Acorn Review! ~ KJ
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July 23, 2026 – 6:46 am It’s different out here. Feels like I control the light. That the cold, wet grass is meant to be. Barefoot, walking Astro. He writes messages to himself, mostly. On the girthy cedar, boat trailer, and propane tank. I sip coffee. Watch our grand lake shine below a rising red-orange…
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July 19, 2026 – 8:44 am Wildfire smoke clearing. Temps to hover around 70. I made eggs, bacon, coffee, and toast for breakfast. Brooke and I sat across from each other eating. A giant vase of flowers between us. They’re Jovi’s. Her 17th birthday raked in the blooms. People think flowers when they think of…
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June 17, 2026 – 6:56 am Bright. Condensation rising off the lake. More bird activity than normal. Blackbirds, beaks stuffed with grass and sticks, fly into the cedars. All around, increased chatter, as a dark sky pans in from the north. This is why I’m here. Morning traffic roars. This isn’t the isolation I crave.…
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My flash fiction piece, Glow, has been published by Fiction Attic Press. Read it here: GLOW Thanks to Michelle Richmond and the editors for giving the story a home. Best, KJ
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KJ Stevens, the writer, on trying to live in the moment
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Too late for waves, hummingbirds, the sunset. I’m over it— the whir of the washing machine, cutting up dead trees, fighting mosquitoes. It’s time to rest. Full-bellied. Ears ringing. Dreams creeping in. There’s something to be said for empty hammocks in the night breeze. A chill carried for miles over the lake. A fire pit…
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At the lake—all drizzly gray and cold—but chickadees, a bluejay, and a red-winged blackbird are pecking at seeds in the feeders—making it bright and warm. The dogs, they sleep. One likes coming here for that very reason—uninterrupted rest. The other tries to sleep away his anxiety but only naps in fits. Paws twitching, eyes opening,…
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Light breaks through the window. Warms my face. Wakes me. And I linger—between morning and night. Sleep and dream. In the hollow place. Where another night has gone and another day appears. I’m alive. But exhausted and empty. I look out the window. There are turkeys and deer sharing the gray field across the road.…
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Birds ravage the feeders. Cedars are turning orange. And it worries me. My stomach grumbles, so I drink coffee. Breathe in the quiet. Let the energy that’s carried me this far rise and continue to educate me. I look out the window at the water, and there I am—chipping away at an icy lake that…
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October 3, 2025 – 7:30 am Near 80 degrees the next couple days. That’s grand. I’ll enjoy it at the lake. Burn the last of the gas out of the waverunners. Toss a line into the water. Pretend to read from my lounge chair. Nap under the brim of my baseball cap. Oh, there’s work…
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“Kali’s not nice,” he says. “That’s right,” Kali adds. She slides over on the booth seat. Moves away from me. “I’m a bitch, too. I just haven’t persuaded anyone I’m bitchy enough for them.” I lean forward. Rest my elbows on the table. Look into my glass. Stare into the beer until a foamy face…
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an excerpt She holds the line between her thumb and forefinger. Lowers the squirming crawler into the dark green water. Watches it disappear between the bare blackened branches of someone’s discarded Christmas tree. Strands of dirty silver tinsel wave with the current as she considers all that could be down there. And why. Back at…
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I thought a starry sky might save me. Five-thirty. Just dragging trash to the road. For men to take to wherever it goes. Under us. Out to sea. Into the air. Outer space maybe. First a slow plane with blinking lights—a dinosaur in the sky—carrying passengers. Everyone with plans and places to be, but no…
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Yesterday. Still summer. But I took the dock out anyway. Cool water. Light waves. My buddy, Astro the Husky, watched from the porch. Bluejays and chickadees kept busy at the feeders. Neighbors two houses down grilled meat. Not many boats out. Long stretches of cottony clouds across the sky. And I only swore a few…
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From Infidelity This excerpt comes from the story “without a fire” in my book Infidelity. A moment of winter stillness, where warmth and emptiness live side by side. We’ve been skiing all day. Cross country on a sunny, warm February day. Across the fields, down through the hardwoods into the evergreens of the swamp then…
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Sun on its way down, giving one last burst of hot light before it moves away for the day. Into another time zone. For other people. But I’m not concerned much about other people. Other time zones. Not now. Not today. Not lately. All there is and needs to be is this small world at…
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an excerpt from the short story, Saving Turtles “None of it matters because it’s life. Be a clown. Be a husband. Be a wife. Be a drunk. None of it matters because we’re supposed to keep crossing roads. We’re supposed to keep moving on. The center of life is about location and timing. Like my…