Cathy Schieffelin
Bio
Writing is breath for me. Travel and curiosity contribute to my daily writing life. I've had pieces published in Adanna Lit Jour. and Halfway Down the Stairs. My first novel, The Call, comes out in 2024. I live in New Orleans.
Stories (20/0)
Transcendence of a Good Meal
I love food. I love eating. I love tasting new things, usually. I love the process of thinking about what to cook. I miss my taste buds. This is the worst part of chemo, I think. The exhaustion, I can take. The intermittent nausea, I can take. The headaches and body aches, like someone took a baseball bat to my torso, I can take. But not tasting food – is awful. I’ve had my third round of chemo and this has been the worst impact for me right now. I want to eat. I want to eat the house, actually. I’m hopped up on steroids, so having no taste buds is just cruel. I love whipping up something tasty. But now it’s starting to feel like work. No matter what I cook, it’s like eating the wall – flat and gray.
By Cathy Schieffelin25 days ago in Chapters
Runaway
The silence is deafening. Dustin strains to hear if the old man is still breathing, but stays as far from the stinking, slumped form as possible in the dilapidated one-room shack. At last a ragged inhale, rasping and gasping, gives Dustin the courage to drag his beaten body towards the door. The belt lays on the floor where the old man dropped it. Dustin knows he has to leave. This is no way to live and his mother’s death months earlier makes him realize things are never going to get better. He pulls himself upright, inspecting the damage – bleeding gash across his wiry chest, bruises the color of stinky cheese emerging, his head pounding with the hateful words and Jim Beam bottle hurled at him moments before his stepfather passed out. He needs to make some distance before the old drunk comes to.
By Cathy Schieffelin25 days ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2024
GhostedTop Story - April 2024
Her house was once a rustic retreat: Grammy’s ancient Afghan draped over the cracked, leather chair next to the wood burning fireplace. Sun-faded yellow gingham curtains in the kitchen danced in the afternoon breeze. She kept the windows open year-round, demanding to breathe in only fresh air. I spent many afternoons curled up with Aunt Bette, watching raunchy movies and drinking good tequila. That was her poison. She hasn’t been gone six months, but I still feel her in the weathered boards of the sagging front porch. I sit on the rough-hewn stairs, avoiding the papaya-colored porch swing. Can’t sit there. It’s not meant for one. Without a hint of a breeze, the swing slowly comes to life.
By Cathy Schieffelin25 days ago in Fiction
Family Adrift
We had a sailboat, an old Surfwind - like a Sunfish, only bigger, with blue and white sails. We didn’t sail in Cleveland but hauled that boat to Michigan every summer where we kept a cottage on Glen Lake. It was idyllic. Dad loved to sail. He’d disappear onto the water for hours. We’d go with him sometimes, but I think he preferred the solitude. It was his time to be alone and think and put the pieces of his life in perspective.
By Cathy Schieffelin25 days ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2024
Unleashed
When told to jump, that’s what I did. My paper airplane ticket used as a bookmark took an unintended trip a few hot summers ago. We were out on a friend’s houseboat – a sizeable vessel in the middle of Lake Powell in Utah, on vacation. It was a gorgeous day, sun overhead and bright with a bit of breeze kicking up. The lake full of boaters and water skiers zipping around… vacationers taking advantage of summer’s bounty as laughter mingled with the scent of Coppertone and birdshit. Gulls gliding, their raucous calls echoing from boat to boat. I lay on my back, sunning myself, reading the next chapter of Jackie Collins-styled smutwork. As I turned the page, my plane ticket took flight as a liberated butterfly, carried on the wings of a passing breeze. It fluttered through the air, gracefully, landing in the shimmering black waves of the lake.
By Cathy Schieffelinabout a month ago in Families
Fire and Ice
Table’s set. Sterling cutlery – Spanish Provincial. Delicately ornate dessert fork, horizontal over Wedgewood bone China plates, adorned in baby blue flowers. Baccarat claret glasses placed two inches behind Waterford water goblets. Egg-shell hued Damask linens dress the lustrous Chippendale table, revealing curved legs of rich Mahogany as Acanthus leaves swirl seductively upwards, begging for a peek.
By Cathy Schieffelin2 months ago in Feast
California Closet Make-Over
A mother’s love should be boundless. But it’s not. A mother’s love might be selfless, but it shouldn’t be. But a mother’s love should ensure safety and healing. Sometimes it doesn’t, because it can’t. Sometimes it’s conflicted, painful and manipulative. Sometimes it breaks you in two.
By Cathy Schieffelin2 months ago in Confessions
This Too Shall Pass
Every time I think I know the lay of the land, things change. Mountains rise in front of me where I’m not expecting them. I lean forward, pushing my heels into the earth and hike upwards. The things I thought would bother me don’t seem so bad. The anticipated ick of chemo – no taste buds, bit of nausea, exhaustion, loss of more cranial peach fuzz – it seems okay… even, manageable. Truthfully, the anticipation of losing my hair was far worse than the actual head shaving experience. I’m getting used to things – sort of.
By Cathy Schieffelin6 months ago in Viva
Parched
Her: He hasn’t told me where we’re going – but we’ll be flying. “Pack warm, outdoorsy clothes and hiking boots.” I’m stronger. Less broken. The desperate loss of Sadie – I still bleed for her. That’s what I called her. I’m sure she was a girl. It was almost too early to determine but she was more than just a collection of cells. I felt her soul leave that morning he found me. They say God only gives you what you can handle. That’s not true. I was swallowed by grief so vast, it hurt to breathe – the very thing we need to do as humans to survive.
By Cathy Schieffelin6 months ago in Fiction
