Tim Carmichael

Joined March 2025

308 stories

Bio

Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Beautiful and Brutal Things, his latest book.

https://a.co/d/537XqhW

Achievements (15)

Stories (308)

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The Art of the Unbecoming
I. Preparation of the Skin Begin at dawn, when the light slants sideways, and birds speak in riddles only trees recall. Remove your name with a bone handled knife
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Poets
Where the Light Touches. Winner in Light Breaks Water Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
There is a still that comes before the hour knows its name, no silence, but something listening. The air, soft as breath against skin,
By Tim Carmichael7 months ago in Poets
The Day We Got Lost
We weren’t even trying to go anywhere just driving because the road was there and the sky was big and gas was cheap and we didn’t want to go home yet
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
The Stranger Inside You
Last night, a stranger knocked not on my door but in my soul He wore my face but his eyes belonged to the stars
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
Beneath My Tongue. Runner-Up in Things You Can’t Say Out Loud Challenge.
There is a temple in the back of my mouth where prayers spoil before they reach the air. I have spoken to no one of these psalms,
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
Granny’s Hands
Granny’s hands are a gospel of their own creased like old maps that led no one astray. They speak in quiet gestures
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
Fugue for the Distant Shallows
It begins like this: a hush carved from the edges of everything the porch railing warm from the long wait of noon, a single bee, late, drunk
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
The Moment Before the Cat Pounces
I have watched her do this a hundred times my tabby crouched low in the hallway, every muscle coiled like a spring wound tight,
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
The Letters to Eleanor
Every evening, as the sun set, Anna sat by the window with a stack of worn letters resting in her lap. The paper was yellowed, edges softened by time, the ink faded like memories drifting through her hands. Each letter bore a name in looping script. Eleanor, the name of someone who had shaped Anna’s days without ever truly existing.
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Fiction
The Red Piano
Mrs. Hall didn’t ask many questions when I offered to sub for the music class. “You’re warm-blooded, you know chords, and you’ve got that calm stare kids don’t mess with,” she said. “That’s more than I get most Mondays.”
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Fiction
Still Moving
I turn without knowing why feet catching the rhythm of a city half-awake half dreaming A man passes me with a jacket too large and a look like he’s carrying tomorrow’s news
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets
His Anger Had Hands
He sat in his chair like a god remote unbending eyes that cut through walls and landed on me without mercy He didn’t need to shout
By Tim Carmichael8 months ago in Poets