Dagmar Goeschick
Stories (107)
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The Better Man
They called her Mother, Witch, Angel, and once—only once, to her face—sir, Mary Ann Bickerdyke. It was in a burned-out courthouse in Tennessee, windows punched open by cannon fire, when a Union quartermaster mistook Mary Ann Bickerdyke for a man because she stood where men stood and spoke the way orders wished they could speak for themselves. When he realized his error, he laughed. When he finished laughing, she was still standing there, arms folded, eyes steady, waiting for him to answer her question about the missing bandages.
By Dagmar Goeschick11 days ago in Fiction
Winter Ritual
Winter arrives without asking. It comes quietly, often overnight, when the world has decided to slow down. Winter is cold. Winter is white. Winter lasts three long months—sometimes more—and sometimes it comes with snow, and sometimes only with the promise of it. Either way, it changes everything.
By Dagmar GoeschickExclusive • 2 months ago
Winter Ritual
Winter arrives without asking. It comes quietly, often overnight, when the world has decided to slow down. Winter is cold. Winter is white. Winter lasts three long months—sometimes more—and sometimes it comes with snow, and sometimes only with the promise of it. Either way, it changes everything.
By Dagmar GoeschickExclusive • 2 months ago
The Room at the End of the Hall
For thirteen years, the room at the end of Jane Albrecht’s hallway had remained closed. She dusted the doorknob now and then, polished it the way one polishes a memory: carefully, without daring to open anything. Guests sometimes asked what was inside.
By Dagmar Goeschick2 months ago in Fiction
I Am What I Am
I am what I am, and who I am. I was born female, and I still am. My life began on a cold, snowy day just before Christmas—a quiet arrival into a world that had very little to offer. My parents were so poor at the time that they did not even own their own coffee mugs. They owned almost nothing at all, except now… me.
By Dagmar Goeschick2 months ago in Humans
