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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…
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September 1, 2025 – 7:24 am Morning’s too early. All wrapped up yet. Not enough blanket. Too much blanket. Numb arms. Achy legs. Toothache hips. Nightmares. I need the sleep that makes a man thoughtful, motivated—smart enough to know when to keep his mouth, eyes, and ears shut. Another sunrise like this, orange and pink…
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Saturday – August 30th, 2025 – 7:55 am It can go on like this for a long time. Putting together casual observations. Gut to brain. Heart to vein. Paper to pen. And still, I struggle with penmanship. I recognize—finally—it’s part of my process. Journaling fills the well. I sort paper, plastic, and cardboard at the…
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We walked the cemetery. Read names. Dates. Heard feet against a soccer ball. High school boys practicing. The little alpha males calling out. Playing on the other side of the chain link fence. Crows have been following me all day. I woke at the cottage with them there. Cawing from treetops. Perched on the neighbor’s…