Spinning of the Teacups

There was a woman who lived in my walls.
She was quiet at first. Sometimes, I could hear her tapping at night. Mama said it was just
the house settling, but I knew the truth. I heard her creeping when we first moved into this house
with Ray. He popped a beer at the kitchen table when I first heard her stir. It sounded like a gasp
or a sigh. I couldn’t quite tell…

And the woman stayed there in the walls as I grew. I got used to her sounds, her tapping,
and her breath whenever things went teacups. That’s what Mama always used to call it: teacups.
She said that once, when she was little, her own mother had taken her to the fair. She had been
amazed by all the sights and sounds, by all the lights. But her favorite ride by far had been the
teacups. She remembered gripping the wheel and spinning the cup faster and faster. The lights of
the fair spun into blurs. The smells of funnel cakes swirled about her. Fellow riders cried out in
terror and delight. And when she got off the ride, she stumbled from side to side trying to find
her bearings, but it was impossible. Instead, she sat down on the bench outside until the lights
stopped spinning and the people stopped squealing and the world came back to Earth. She looked
up at her mother, smiled, and asked to ride one more time.

Continue reading this short story by Aimee Hardy that was published in Stonecoast Review Issue 13: Superstition. Read more…


My first memories were of paper. Big bright white sheets flying through the air and being ripped free only to float down perfectly on the counter. 

I remember balling up tiny pieces of paper in my fast little fists. I remember my mother’s laughter. 

My parents owned a butcher shop on the outskirts of town. I grew up inside shop windows, between flashes of white packages, through the smell of salt and meat. I took my first steps on the stoop of the shop. I learned to sit up and roll over between crates in the storage room. I learned words spoken over the tops of counters. But I never spoke. I couldn’t speak. 

My father became frustrated with me. He labeled me stubborn, lazy, not useful to him or the business. But my mother was different. 

She suggested paper. 


I woke to monstrous sounds that shook me from my dreams. 

Groggy, I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock. I blinked until the green lines came into focus from the bedside table. 

2:12 AM. 

The hammering continued, and I sighed as I pulled myself to my feet. My head ached. I grabbed my robe from the foot of my bed and put it on as I pulled open the door. 

Light blinded my eyes. My mother had turned on all of the lights in the house. She was standing unsteadily on the sofa with a picture frame in each hand. She turned her head and nodded at me, mumbling hello between lips clenching long silver nails. She set down the picture frames and took a nail from her mouth. She squinted her eyes, lining it up, and started hammering. The bangs rang around the room. I cringed with memory. 

“Mom,” I choked out. “What are you doing?”

Continue reading this short story by Aimee Hardy that was published in Las Positas’ Havik 2020: Homeward. Read more…

The Night We Met

I opened my eyes, and it was snowing. 

I was all alone. 

I lay there wrapped up in a blanket, looking out at the snow. The TV was playing softly in the corner, but my attention was captivated by the white outside. 

I don’t remember how old I was, but when I tried to move my bones ached. It was like tiny pieces of glass were ground into each muscle and joint. But the snow called. It sang to me. 

Continue reading this short story by Aimee Hardy that was published in Adelaide Literary Magazine 2019. Read more…

Super Man

Once, there was a superhero who didn’t know how to fly. He was on his fourth drink, and his tie hung limply around his collar. His face was in shadow hiding the stubble on his chin. He was slumped back in his chair and swirled his drink. He absentmindedly tapped his other hand to the slow country music piped in through the dim light. A TV in the corner flashed the sad state of the news. He shook his head, careful not to make eye contact with anyone in particular…

Continue reading this short story by Aimee Hardy that was published in Bluntly Literary Magazine October 2019. Read more…