by Stephen D. Gibson

After arguing, I’d gone to bed on the couch and the next morning cold was thick on the ground, white, heavy with water. Snow came down February 15^th. My wife asked if we had two shovels. I thought of them, one light plastic, the other heavier, a blade of ragged iron. The cold stayed bitter. We shoveled together. Back in the house, our children were throwing butter at each other, sharing leftover greasy chicken with the dog I hate. Often, my wife and I divide tasks, but as our breath fogged the air we worked side by side, forging warmth.

Stephen D. Gibson received his MA in Creative Writing from Purdue University and his PhD in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Houston. His fiction has won an Associated Writing Programs Intro Award for Short Stories, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice, and appeared in The Southeast Review, Quarterly West, StoryQuarterly, Western Humanities Review, and elsewhere.