Freya Matheson

“Anything is Walking Distance If You Have the Time” by Freya Matheson

The diner is filled with the usual Sunday crowd: church families, brunchers, the omnipresent elderly couple, children sticky with syrup. At least, this is what Stacy assumes is the usual Sunday crowd. As far as she can tell, everything looks in its place, but then again she's out of hers. The diner is different from the Northern restaurants she's grown used to. The waiters move slower than they do back home, as if the small town air is heavy and they have to carry it on top of their pancakes. The people eat slower, too. Customers simply s...

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“Another Time” by Freya Matheson

Submitted to Contest #141

"Is your soup any good? We can send it back if it's bad." "No, it's fine! I really like it, actually." There's a blob that resembles chicken nestled in the broth, but I decide to ignore it. People don't know how to deal with vegetarians on first dates. I get it. Especially because this guy really looks like he wants a burger. "So tell me about your family. Like, where are the...

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“A Fall From Grace” by Freya Matheson

Submitted to Contest #113

(TW: Mentions of assault/violence and suicide)Stella sets up her booth like she does every Friday. Ballston Mall is always swarming with desperate characters: flirtatious teenagers, voracious salespeople, millennials trying to find acceptance with a side of discount pajamas. She gets her fair share of hate, sure. There's always a MAGA Hat Asshole that spits on the ground and calls her some terrible slur. She usually makes at least $500 though, and for a fortune teller that's basically the best one can do.<...

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“Souls, Spirits, Whatever You Call It” by Freya Matheson

Submitted to Contest #113

The first time I saw her I was freshly 16; my birthday is in September, so it was the first week of school and I was completely drained. I was having some banal dream about being a volunteer at a shelter, but the shelter was full of unicorns or whatever. I don’t remember what task I was doing in this random fantasy, but I remember I saw her on the other side of the yard. She was wearing a blue shirt and h...

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“Never Got My Apple Pie” by Freya Matheson

Submitted to Contest #100

           It smells like garlic butter, and it’s making my stomach hurt. Sally’s cooking the same kind of instant mashed potatoes Mom and I use when we go camping, and inhaling the fumes makes me think of bug spray and days without baths. Even though the food looks terrible, I don’t complain because I like Sally; she smells like cats and cinnamon, and she gave me a York peppermint patty when we first showed up yesterday. “It’ll be our little secret,” she said with a smirk. She had li...

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