Stories by
J.S. Graustein

With the knives relocated to the top shelf, she could no longer reach them unassisted. But then neither could he. Yet.

J.S. Graustein writes & edits, but does not cook at Grayestone Lodge.

I giggle when he taps my knee. Pure reflex. So tall. So blond. So cute. My giggle spills into laugh. Then cough. And a red-faced physician.

J.S. Graustein exists in California but lives in her English dreams. Pop by for tea anytime and tell her a story.

A kiss won’t make us married, she said. Just a kiss, she said. He strokes his ring. 20 years later, hers are still the only lips he’s known.

J.S. Graustein exists in California but lives in her English dreams.  You can visit her @jsgraustein & http://folded.wordpress.com.

Everyone runs to the plane but me. I get the last seat (middle of 5), crush men’s bags on my way. I’m white & female. They glare.

I have to pee. Again. I think—Sahara. No use. I climb over knee high carry-on bundles while their owners slap me. Curse me.

Lock myself in & pee. Cry. I lean on the bulkhead, drink in this freedom from my status as tubabu & sleep. Steward kicks me out.

We’re given customs forms. I write. They stare. One hands me his with “s’il vous plait?” They stare. I nod & write. They smile.

J.S. Graustein (@jsgraustein) is the editor of PicFic (@picfic)