Kathryn Carson
Bio
I have MS, Hashimoto's, and a black belt in taekwondo. I'm also an ocular melanoma survivor. This explains why my writing might be kind of obsessed with apocalypse--societal, religious, and personal.
Stories (7/0)
The Old Man of the Celestial Court
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But little Susie needed a new toy, so, as it was written in the opening words of one of the many holy books the humans had come up with in order to explain the batshit place they lived in, “It had to happen.” There weren’t always unicorns, either; it had to happen. There weren’t always manticores, jellyfish, dogs, rats, lions, cows, scorpions, whales, snails, or anything else in the Valley, really. All of it had come from the insistence of little Susie. Humanity itself had at one time been the answer to one of Susie’s demands to her father, the god of creation: “I want a creature that looks like a god but thinks like a baby all the days of its life.”
By Kathryn Carsonabout a month ago in Fiction
How to Be a MMOMA
Take a look at this photo. From left to right, these women are Master Esther Kraft, Grand Master Barbara Robinson, the author (Kathryn Carson), and Master Annette Mau Deane of Gentle East Martial Arts of Virginia. Between us, we've lost count of the classes we've taught (together and separately), the competitions we've medaled in, and the boards and bones we've broken. Grand Master Robinson has no idea of the number of black belts she's conferred over the course of her long, amazing career. It numbers in the thousands. She conferred all three of the other belts in this photo, too.
By Kathryn Carson5 months ago in Viva
Gold
I’m already tired—bone-tired. No sleep from the night before. My husband will have to both drive and entertain our kid in the back seat while I doze. I am unsteady just getting in the van, and yet I’m supposed to compete today. I’d like to say that this is unusual for me, and it is, at least in part; I’m not usually competing in a tournament. But the sleeplessness before life’s milestones, both major and minor, has been a facet of my life since I was very young. Anxiety runs like a hot, poisoned river through my family’s genes, and I know I will be spending all of today managing it.
By Kathryn Carson6 months ago in Families
Liminal
The dark-haired cop’s name plate read “Haley.” The other cop, Blondie, was one of those that wouldn’t let a big man get close enough to read his name. Haley crowded past me toward the kitchen table and picked up the photo I’d been looking at. He couldn’t have missed it in the thin winter sunlight leaking through the windows: Marie, sitting on the beach as the sun set behind the broken clouds, closing like Smaug’s eye above the breakwater. The light in that photo, nearly two thousand miles south and ten years on, still hurt the eyes.
By Kathryn Carson8 months ago in Horror
Heart Sketch
Professor Holly Denby put her head in her hand and leaned hard on the desk. Paperwork had been the bane of her life before the Shift. It was fast becoming the same after, for different reasons. Before, she’d had useless paperwork and the easiest possible circumstances under which to finish it. Now, she had paperwork that meant literal life and death for a town of more than two hundred people, bad ink, bad pens, bad paper, a desk that had come from the landfill, a terrible old chair that made her back ache, and only a couple hours of daylight in which to complete the odious task once her rounds were done.
By Kathryn Carsonabout a year ago in Fiction
Ray
I painted your nursery bright dusty yellow—a cheerful non-color, like the light on a country dirt road in summer, neither a “boy” color nor “girl,” a safe and open space for any child to grow. I answered the same way when people asked—and they always asked—are you hoping for a boy or a girl? I answered the same—always the same—I just want all ten fingers and all ten toes. It shamed them into remembering that health is not a given, that we can’t choose bodies for our children as if they were some bright chrome product on a shelf in a store.
By Kathryn Carsonabout a year ago in Poets
Hiding in Plain Sight
“Wait,” I said, looking around at my siblings and the checks they held. Behind his desk, the attorney winced and adjusted his tie. I got the impression he’d seen this kind of thing at will readings before, and was expecting me to blow up at him. Luckily for him, I’ve never been given to blowing up at anybody. However, even I felt the weight of all the zeroes my siblings’ checks had, and mine didn’t. I mean, $20,000 is a lot of money—most of a year’s pay for me—and I was grateful to Uncle Leonard for thinking of me in his will. He didn’t have to. But every. Single. Check. That my siblings now held had two more zeroes than mine did.
By Kathryn Carsonabout a year ago in Families
