Latest Fiction Post

  • Last Seen

    Image via from Pexels

    The hardware store assistant led Amy and her new fiance Eric into the materials section of the Decor-A-Home store. “Now do you guys want a bed frame that’s made of wood…”

    “Too expensive,” Eric muttered. Their price range was tight, but a turquoise Hermes saddle bag hung from Amy’s arm. Though it could’ve been a birthday gift, the store assistant took it as an invitation to up sell.

    “Wood is more sturdy. It lasts generations, and if you get a classic style, then it will never be out of fashion.” The assistant looked to Amy. Amy had a long, pointed chin that didn’t match her squinted eyes or tomato-like nose. She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder and turned to Eric.

    His clean-shaven face was round and baby-like. He had slicked back his hair with gel to appear older, but it wasn’t working. Amy placed her slender hand on his forearm. “Maybe we could splurge, just a little. For the children or grandchildren. We could pass the bed frame down for generations.”

    “Like your bag?” he asked. 

    Amy withdrew her hand and turned to the store assistant. “We’ll see your other material options please.”

    “What about wicker? Beach themes are all the rage.” The assistant lead them further through towering stacks of planks and boards and screws. “The wicker can come in any color you want and is more flexible.”

    This time Amy gauged Eric’s reaction more closely. What she saw is impossible ...


Latest Poetry Post

  • Hair Loss

    Dark brown clumps of hair paint the shower walls.

    They slide down

    to clog the drain.

    Stress. Stress can do this.

    But so can disease and genes.

    Stress. I stress too much.

    Maybe it’s all in my head, each hair clinging

    to my skin, snaking around my arms and legs.

    I ignore it.


    More hair wraps around my fingers as I slip conditioner through the tangles.

    This is real.

    I swap out my shampoo.

    I take up yoga.


    My friends notice.

    They stop telling me that it’s stress.

    Scalp peeks through no matter where I flip the part,

    no matter how carefully I pull the strands back.

    I see the doctor,

    receive a diagnosis,

    pop pills.


    Strands keep falling from the follicle;

    they break in half.

    I count each individual hair,

    measure the circumference of my ponytail,

    measure my worth.


    Type “bald” into Google.

    Find men or cancer.

    Type “beauty” into Google.

    Find hair.



WedbushWrite is the official website of Sydney Wedbush the fantasy and speculative fiction author. Here you will find her fiction and poetry posts as well as updates on her writing projects and articles from her study abroad in London. Learn more about her on the About page.