Capsule Stories Autumn 2022 Edition: Falling Leaves

By Capsule Stories

Featuring poetry and prose, Capsule Stories Autumn 2022 Edition explores the theme Falling Leaves through melancholy yet hopeful writing about falling, leaving, and letting go. These stories and poems reflect on a season of change in life. Read about grieving a loved one, leaving the only place you've ever known as home, falling out of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Capsule Stories
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781953958174

Book preview

Capsule Stories: Autumn 2022 EditionCapsule Stories

Masthead

Natasha Lioe, Founder

Carolina VonKampen, Publisher and Editor in Chief

Claire Taylor, Editor

BEE LB, Reader

Aimee Brooks, Reader

Stephanie Coley, Reader

Rhea Dhanbhoora, Reader

Hannah Fortna, Reader

Teya Hollier, Reader

Mel Lake, Reader

Kendra Nuttall, Reader

Rachel Skelton, Reader

Deanne Sleet, Reader

Annie Powell Stone, Reader

Emily Uduwana, Reader

Amy Wang, Reader

Cover art by Darius Serebrova

Book design by Carolina VonKampen

Ebook conversion by Lorie DeWorken

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-953958-16-7

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-953958-17-4

© Capsule Stories LLC 2022

All authors retain full rights to their work after publication.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or used in any manner without written permission of Capsule Stories except for use of quotations in a book review.

Capsule Stories: Autumn 2022 Edition

Contents

Prologue: Falling Leaves

The End of Summer—Anna Kibbey

Feuilles d’automne—Mary McColley

Fall—Mary McColley

Hometown, or Trees—Mary McColley

Down Down Down—Mary McColley

Gray Day—Paul Hostovsky

Ashes—Sam Neboschizkij

Empty Spaces—Nancy Huggett

To the Woods—Katherine D. Perry

September’s End—Ann Weil

This Life—Eve Croskery

The Season for Sowing—Eve Croskery

Shorter Days—Mary Clements Fisher

The North Garden—Susan Alexander

Dust—Susan Alexander

How to Let Go—Mona Anderson

October Arrival—Jodie Duffy

Mother Tree—Cynthia Landesberg

Assimilation—Emerald Liu

Mid-Autumn—Emerald Liu

Parting—Emerald Liu

Deer Visits—Jennifer Clark

Dear Tree Committee—Jennifer Clark

Try to Remember—Emma Thom

The Quietness of Litterfall—Veronica Nation

Searching for Remnants—Veronica Nation

Dental Records—Isabel Glass

The Trouble with Tenderness—Gita Labrador

Cold beneath the Mountain Ash—Shaun Anthony McMichael

Stop-Motion—Kim Weldin

City of Hope—Aiden Heung

Sixi Field—Aiden Heung

Meet Me under the Birches—Beck Anson

Rebuilding—Beck Anson

8—Beck Anson

If This Is How It Has to End—Marisa P. Clark

Ride to Work—Marisa P. Clark

Same Old, Same Old—Marisa P. Clark

The Definition of Home—Taylor Stanton

October Morning Raking Leaves—Joan Mazza

Here Comes Another Winter—Joan Mazza

Contributors

Editorial Staff

Submission Guidelines

Falling Leaves

As you walk home, the leaves swirl around your feet, crunching beneath your shoes with each step. Reds, oranges, yellows, and browns color the street so vibrantly that you stop and take a photo. For a brief moment, you want to send her the photo, to share this beauty with her, and then you remember that she’s gone. You put your phone back in your jacket pocket and shuffle down the sidewalk, lost in memories. You don’t look up until you’re home. The big oak tree in the front yard welcomes you, its yellow-sleeved branches rustling in the wind and waving hello.

The oak is dying. The arborist said it wouldn’t last much longer and that he would come back before spring to cut it down. You agreed and set up the appointment, though the thought of losing the tree stung your eyes with tears. The oak shades half the house, dapples the wood floors with patterned sunlight in the late afternoon, covers the sky in a canopy of green half the year, blankets the ground in color each fall. It’s part of your home, a constant in your life, the way you tell the seasons. Its whispering branches lull you to sleep each night. But the oak, too, will leave you sooner than you’d expected—at least you have time to say goodbye.

You make a cup of tea and sit on the window seat in the living room facing the oak. A squirrel scurries up the thick trunk to some unseen hiding place to store its food for the winter. Does it know the tree is dying, that its days are numbered? Next year, the front yard will look empty without the oak. Maybe you’ll plant a new tree, full of hope and promise. But for now, you’re content to sit and watch the tree unclench its tight fists and let go, golden leaves floating from tree to ground.

The End of Summer

Anna Kibbey

She breaks one night in

September, scatters fountains

on our scorched eyelids

her ragged laughter

overhead, diamonds spilled

across morning lawns

diminuendo

that single, long-held chord can

still blush apple cheeks

yields such sweetness in

her decay, the sealed jam jars

in memory of quince

of sun-drunk plums splashed

on sheets, innards mined by wasps

like forensic drones

October conducts

its chaos of leaves, bronzing

on mist’s eiderdown

hollow, beneath it,

she’s sleeping more, doesn’t eat,

yet the slip of her

holds on so fiercely,

her fingers rake deep furrows

as she leaves, the turn

almost a relief,

that nothing, no one, dies as

beautifully as her.

Feuilles d’automne

Mary McColley

When the berries turned orange, I turned gray

    though my hair still summer-blonde, still twisting gilt

    in summer-light (no alchemy succeeds)

Wore my soul on my heels, ran and ran

    in shadows, past trees’ river-doubles

    (rippling, shuddering selves)

Scraped my fingers on bark to feel something,

    grew my hair long and bound it in knots

    atop my skull (crown of split endings,

    forked like snake-tongues)

I coughed like I could spit out my heart

    but there was only fall’s phlegm within me.

Fall

Mary McColley

Ducks spear the water—

The leaves have lost their pretense of green,

   they die as we all do, individually

The spines, the stems snap beneath the soles of shoes,

   flicker in wind over green beer bottles

smashed into gems,

   I walk the canal, I tread the corpses—

Dust from dust to dust again.

Hometown, or Trees

Mary McColley

Here are the trunks and the roots and the twigs,

the beeches pines oak maple, leaves that burn

away the summer every fall, leave themselves

on the ground, cinder and husk.

I used to gather up the dead

with green-wire rake and listen

to their brown susurrus of regret.

Here are the enchanted grasping limbs.

We always cut them back,

pick acorns like nits from the hair of the grass.

Wintercome, I shiver by

the orange smear of their bones alight

and all the next days, chimney bricks

keep burning with hardwood heat. Here

are the woods. Gray brown and cold.

Here are the hearts and the spines,

that break sometimes beneath the snow

and in springtime, bloom again.

Down

Down

Down

Mary McColley

A cold wind blew for two days and

I called it happiness, the cold,

let my skin shiver into white blanks,

the beds of my nails set with ten purple dusks

each curving crescent clenched tight in pockets.

Clouds fled the sky, lots of

frail leaves couldn’t hold to the trees any longer, they

crumpled, skidded down the sidewalks like me.

Tendrils of clover curled under a bench.

Children chased dying white seeds through the wind

and all birds that daubed the chimney tops

were black. I sat among the grass and knuckles, the grasping weeds,

pulled my shoulders back tight beneath my sweater:

blade to sharpen narrow blade,

to fly in gray wind and blow me away.

Gray Day

Paul Hostovsky

It’s the almost that I love

about a gray day

like today. In weather

like this, I almost

feel a kind of joy:

the