Hi! I'm Kelly.

As a writer, I've always been interested in family stories. When I heard of a Satanic cult in my family tree, I thought I'd found the story of a lifetime. Read more.

The Blessings of Being a Witness

The Blessings of Being a Witness

I saw a car accident this morning.

I was sitting at a stoplight, behind a school bus. The light turned green and the bus started to go when a car came speeding through the intersection.

"That was a close one," I thought. Then I noticed the bus wasn't moving, and the car had stopped in the street facing the wrong direction. I put on my hazard lights and ran over to the car. The driver sat calmly smoking a cigarette. 

"Are you okay?"

"Think so," he said. He stared down at the broken glass in his passenger seat like it was a TV screen he'd been watching all night.

I reached for my phone to call the police but I'd left it in the car. He handed me his. Green texts crowded the right-hand side of the screen. My stomach still hurts, the last one read. I tried to not look as I fumbled with the buttons.

Both drivers sat in their vehicles while we waited for the police to arrive. The school bus—empty of children—had a flat tire and maybe a busted headlight. The car had lost its rear view mirror; its passenger door would need replaced. Tire marks in the grass showed that its driver had over-corrected and hopped the curb before spinning out. Traffic flowed around us, slowly, politely. Only a few people gawked.

I drove away feeling cleansed.

The fog from my head had cleared. The depression had lifted. For those fifteen minutes, I had a purpose, even though I had no great wisdom: Stop. Make sure everyone's okay. Call for help. Give thanks that it wasn't you.

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A Shed of One's Own

A Shed of One's Own

Room on the Bus

Room on the Bus