Shannon Kearns
The Stone Children
It happened the same way every month. Usually at night, or at the first sign of light, still so dark that she hesitated to call it dawn. The ache in her abdomen would start like a slow rain, gentle at first, barely perceptible. A noise in the background of her dreams. She might shift onto her side. Lay a hand on her belly, eyes fluttering softly then closing again. Even in her twilight state, the same thought that appeared this time every month wound its way through her mind: another stone child.
It had started eight months ago when she left her marriage. After the divorce, they sold their house, a three-bedroom in the suburbs bought with the hope of children that never came. Her husband moved in with his new girlfriend, while Marnie found a cottage for rent on the outskirts of the suburbs. Affordable, clean, well-maintained, but isolated. Marnie didn’t mind, though. She had spent years living under someone else’s critical gaze. She was ready to be alone.
She decorated the cottage exactly as she liked. White curtains, white sheets, white bedspread. Marnie wasn’t sure why she was drawn to white all of a sudden, but there were many parts of her that were emerging now that she had space and time to let them. White felt fresh, alive. It felt like hope. The cottage was always silent except for her movements, her murmurings, her footfalls. White felt silent. Sacred.
Marnie rarely left the cottage. As a freelance writer with the modern convenience of grocery delivery, there was little she wanted for outside of the cottage’s walls. The cottage was a safe sanctuary. Very few knew where she had gone. Her mother. Her best friend. Although her husband had never been violent, he was loud, dismissive, and neglectful. When he asked for her new address, she had ignored his message, and he hadn’t asked again. Marnie finally felt peace. The only thing that remained undone, the only thing she pined for, was a child.
There had been children, many of them, that she had birthed too early, half-human, half-fish into her bloody hands. Her husband hadn’t understood that pain. Well, they’re not real, he would say. But they were real, each of them, to her. They already had a name, a personality, a face. Tender skin and a real cry that echoed long after their remnants had passed from her body.
That is why when, every month she began to push a stone from her body, she called it her child and tucked her into a crib she had bought from a secondhand seller on the internet. The stones were faceless, egg-shaped, and colored as of the earth: burnished red, dark obsidian, quartz white. At night, she sang to them and read them stories from picture books she had begun collecting. The books arrived in tidy boxes each week, a new one to share with her stone children.
She kept the crib in a small room she locked upon leaving, protecting its delicacy, its sanctity, as a mother bird protects her nest. The room might have been a study, but in Marnie’s mind, it had become a nursery. Her mother was going to visit next month. Her best friend the month after. Marnie knew she could never show them the room with stones tucked under blankets in a crib. They would think she had gone mad. And, perhaps, she had.
On the third day of the third month of the year, the ninth stone child was born. This birth was more painful than any of the others, and the stone that emerged was the largest of all. It was the first time that an egg-shaped mass had formed in Marnie’s lower belly in the days leading up to the birth. The other stones had been too small to notice, each the size of a chicken’s egg. With them, her shape had not changed at all. This stone, however, had heft, had weight, and for a week before its birth, had turned and shifted inside of Marnie in a way that made her think of a globule stuck in the throat.
Marnie had awoken in a cold sweat to the persistent knocking of contractions that swelled bile into her throat and forced her to bend in half at the abdomen like a wilted flower, her head pushed into her pillow as a moan trembled through her body.
Nine months of living alone, nine months of stone children, had left her white sheets dappled with red, now brown, now gray blood stains. At first Marnie didn’t think she had the strength to leave her bed, but a day of scrubbing and laundry after another birth forced her to stumble from the bed into the garden behind her house.
The birds screeched and flapped into the shadows of trees as the porch door slammed behind her and she waddled, her thighs spread, her nightgown heaped around her waist with a tight fist, then crouched in the garden over a bed of soil and mulch flecked with residual snow.
There were no neighbors close enough to hear her, none to see her, as she uttered a guttural howl. She balanced her weight with her hands while remaining in a low squat, peering between her legs at the stone that peered back at her.
It was smooth, egg-shaped, its narrower crown appearing first. Marnie breathed, spat, and clenched, bearing down on the stone until its fat bottom popped from her, and it rolled on the ground, covered in dirt and blood. She allowed her body to collapse over it, cradling it between her thighs, warm and wet from her insides. Its exterior shell was soft, flexible, like the fontanelle of a child’s skull.
When she could breathe again, when her body could bear its weight on her legs, on her swollen feet, Marnie rose, carrying her stone child to the kitchen. Blood was running down her leg at a faster pace than usual. Marnie took off her nightgown and stuffed it between her legs to quell the flow.
The stone child was heavy, the soft gray of a mourning dove. The shell had hardened and cooled. Marnie turned on the tap, ran lukewarm water down the stone, washing it carefully. The water turned dark then clear. She dried the stone child with a tea towel then set it down with the other stones. It was larger than the others, the length of her forearm. Some of the other stone children caught the light at odd angles, or changed colors, opalescent. This ninth stone was plain, almost somber.
Marnie sat in the faded armchair beside the crib, looking at each stone child. Blood continued to trickle and pool beneath her, even with the nightgown bunched between her thighs. She desperately wanted something to eat–a ripe peach, a thick slice of bread with salted butter, an apple slathered with cinnamon and peanut butter. The cabinets were growing empty since the last grocery delivery, and preparing food felt like an insurmountable task, anyway. Instead, she bit the skin of her knuckles, gazing at the newest birth, while the after-cramps squeezed at her belly.
Each stone child was a mystery. It was only after the divorce and the arrival at her cottage that they began to grow. Her body was turning its unfertilized eggs into something solid, something that could be birthed and remain, rather than be lost. How could she not hold onto that? How could she not love each of them?
Of course, she had performed the perfunctory internet searches, typing in terms like: can my period produce hard substances? Why am I passing stones? Why is my body turning its insides into stone? And her strangest search, typed after a few glasses of wine on a windy night: am I a reversed Medusa?
The only real results she saw were about kidney stones and gallbladders. But these were not kidney stones. They were births, each of them. Soon she gave up wondering why they appeared as the stones piled and her attachment to them grew.
The only helpful result she finally found was about female stress and rage. Rage, she read, can change the female body in ways science has yet to understand. That made sense. She had been angry, was still angry, with her husband and his coldness, his neglect. With her body for betraying her. For promising her a child and delivering shreds of flesh that passed from her with stilled heartbeats. With the doctors who assumed she would be fine after every death she produced. With the word fine and all it buried.
The stone children slept peacefully in their crib, if she could call it sleeping. They had never shown signs of life, never shifted position in the night, or when she wasn’t looking. They never stirred or shuddered, or made any sounds. Yet the newest stone was different. Its largeness could hold a small, but vital, infant. Its perfect egg shape might be hiding or protecting something within. A cool, hard incubator with something warm and alive inside?
This question floated around Marnie like a ghost as she pulled the nightgown from between her thighs to check the bleeding. The steady river had begun to clot, and even though there was a sticky red mess, fresh blood was seeping at a far slower pace. Dizziness gripped her temples, and her stomach groaned for food.
She should eat something. Bathe. Rest. At least put some clothes on. But, there was no one around. No one saw her naked and bloody. And even if someone could see her, she was past the point of caring. The woman who cared was the woman she used to be, married, living in the suburbs, pacing the bathroom floor every month waiting for the double lines to appear on the stick. Another self, one that existed only in the liminal space of memory, and that, too, was growing foggier with every stone child she birthed.
Marnie pulled the newest stone from its place nestled in the crib, next to its siblings. She rocked the stone child in her arms, whispering to it. Her knees wobbled, her arms were leaden, but the stone fit perfectly in the crook of her elbow against her breast that hung pale and flaccid, not ballooned with colostrum and the first spring of milk. Marnie nestled the stone there anyway, imagining she was feeding it. She held it to her ear, listening. There was only silence, but no matter. She needed to know if something lived inside.
The stained nightgown lay in a heap at the foot of the crib, and Marnie carried the stone child through the kitchen and back into the garden. She passed the blood trail that snaked down the porch stairs into the dirt, then she wound through a row of rose bushes to the ancient shed that stood, dilapidated, close to the edge of the woods. When she first moved in, the landlady had warned her not to go in, and she hadn’t. It’s falling apart, she said. There were too many sharp things, as if Marnie were a child who might unwittingly hurt herself. Now, she unlatched the shed door without hesitation, certain she could find something heavy enough to crack stone.
It was warmer inside of the shed, and there was a distinct smell of rotting hay. Spiderwebs dotted the corners and stretched madly across the beams, glinting in caught light from the dusty windows. On a row of shelves leaning against one wall, tools were lined up neatly in sharp contrast with the piles of old machinery, bits of steel and shards of metal, and splinters of wood that stuck out at odd angles from the walls that were collapsing in on themselves.
Marnie picked up each tool, blowing dust off of it, the stone child held warmly in her arm. She needed to find just the right one. It couldn’t be too sharp or heavy. If something lived inside of the stone, she needed to protect it.
At the end of the row, she found a chisel, rusted at the tip, not too sharp, but not too dull. She grabbed the hammer beside it. With both, she could tap on the stone until it cracked without damaging its interior. Marnie held the tools in her hands, breathing heavily. The dust clogged her throat and made her eyes tear, but she wiped her eyes with a bloodstained hand and went back into the yard, letting the shed door slam behind her, frightening the spiders.
In the fresh air, she shivered, her body only now responding to the early March chill. She knelt in the cold, dead grass, her head swimming as she bent over the stone child, a smooth ovoid, silent and unstirring.
Marnie placed her hand on its widest part, feeling again for a heartbeat. For a feeling of breathing, like a chest rising and falling in time. It wasn’t logical to think this stone might hold a child, but then again ever since leaving her marriage, logic had disintegrated until it was as futile as the dried remnants of blood she left behind each month. A passing, a release. She had no space for logic. Logic suddenly felt quite cold, quite male, and she shivered again, pressing her hand harder against the stone child. Whatever she had created, it was hers. Only hers.
The land around her fell silent as she picked up the chisel and hammer. Birds swallowed their notes, and the trees stood motionless, as if watching. Gripping the chisel in one hand, Marnie placed it on the roundest part of the stone, and picked up the hammer with her other hand. She tapped with quiet intention, her brow furrowed. Her movements were gentle yet deliberate, as a mother might remove dirt from a child’s wound, or cut their fingernails, careful not to slice the delicate surrounding skin.
A crack appeared, vein-like, on the stone’s surface. It did not bleed, as Marnie feared it might. Only stone dust appeared, chalky grey, coating her fingers. The crack deepened, spread, and then with a sound that was somewhere between thunder and breaking glass, the stone child split in two.
Marnie let out a low cry, bringing the two pieces to her chest, searching them for a sign of life. They were covered in dust, and even when she blew, it was impossible to see if anything lived inside of the cavity, one side hollow, one side rounded, but with an uninterpretable form. Water. Marnie shuffled inside, her gooseflesh prickling, her skin mottled.
The warm interior of the kitchen greeted her with its low light. She turned on the tap to rinse the cracked stone of its dust and particles, to reveal what form lay hidden beneath the layer of debris. The warm water flowed over her hands, her wrists, her forearms. It was clouded from the stone dust, turning everything into a soupy, muddy paste flecked with iridescent mica so that as the water cleared, it seemed she was gazing into a kaleidoscope.
Marnie used her thumbs to scrub at the round form that was embedded into one side of the stone. There was something soft, almost fleshy, beneath the flecked mud.
It was difficult to make out the features, but the stone child’s face appeared first. Rosebud lips, round cheeks, pale, the color of stone. Eyelids that did not flutter. She cleared the rest of the paste, revealing a chubby body curled into the stone, like a fruit pit.
With great care, she pulled the child from its stone home and held it between her palms. It was roughly the size of a fat eggplant, a perfectly formed infant, but unmoving. Marnie’s chest shrank as she pulled the child to her heart, yearning to feel some echo of a beat, but nothing. She allowed herself one great sob, then, holding the stone child to her chest, she retreated to her bedroom, to the white curtained room with stained sheets and silence.
Marnie climbed into bed, cradling the stone child as she fell into the darkness of exhaustion and sleep that might easily have been the sleep of a stone.
When light peered through her curtains, she turned over, caught in the amnesia of dreams, wondering why there was the muffled sound of an infant crying. It only took a moment before she remembered. There, tucked in her arms, the stone child breathed and gulped, and let out a raucous shriek for its mother. Marnie, feeling the sore fullness of her right breast, tucked its weight instinctually into the stone child’s mouth, and they both drifted off to the rhythmic sound of swallowing.
It had started eight months ago when she left her marriage. After the divorce, they sold their house, a three-bedroom in the suburbs bought with the hope of children that never came. Her husband moved in with his new girlfriend, while Marnie found a cottage for rent on the outskirts of the suburbs. Affordable, clean, well-maintained, but isolated. Marnie didn’t mind, though. She had spent years living under someone else’s critical gaze. She was ready to be alone.
She decorated the cottage exactly as she liked. White curtains, white sheets, white bedspread. Marnie wasn’t sure why she was drawn to white all of a sudden, but there were many parts of her that were emerging now that she had space and time to let them. White felt fresh, alive. It felt like hope. The cottage was always silent except for her movements, her murmurings, her footfalls. White felt silent. Sacred.
Marnie rarely left the cottage. As a freelance writer with the modern convenience of grocery delivery, there was little she wanted for outside of the cottage’s walls. The cottage was a safe sanctuary. Very few knew where she had gone. Her mother. Her best friend. Although her husband had never been violent, he was loud, dismissive, and neglectful. When he asked for her new address, she had ignored his message, and he hadn’t asked again. Marnie finally felt peace. The only thing that remained undone, the only thing she pined for, was a child.
There had been children, many of them, that she had birthed too early, half-human, half-fish into her bloody hands. Her husband hadn’t understood that pain. Well, they’re not real, he would say. But they were real, each of them, to her. They already had a name, a personality, a face. Tender skin and a real cry that echoed long after their remnants had passed from her body.
That is why when, every month she began to push a stone from her body, she called it her child and tucked her into a crib she had bought from a secondhand seller on the internet. The stones were faceless, egg-shaped, and colored as of the earth: burnished red, dark obsidian, quartz white. At night, she sang to them and read them stories from picture books she had begun collecting. The books arrived in tidy boxes each week, a new one to share with her stone children.
She kept the crib in a small room she locked upon leaving, protecting its delicacy, its sanctity, as a mother bird protects her nest. The room might have been a study, but in Marnie’s mind, it had become a nursery. Her mother was going to visit next month. Her best friend the month after. Marnie knew she could never show them the room with stones tucked under blankets in a crib. They would think she had gone mad. And, perhaps, she had.
On the third day of the third month of the year, the ninth stone child was born. This birth was more painful than any of the others, and the stone that emerged was the largest of all. It was the first time that an egg-shaped mass had formed in Marnie’s lower belly in the days leading up to the birth. The other stones had been too small to notice, each the size of a chicken’s egg. With them, her shape had not changed at all. This stone, however, had heft, had weight, and for a week before its birth, had turned and shifted inside of Marnie in a way that made her think of a globule stuck in the throat.
Marnie had awoken in a cold sweat to the persistent knocking of contractions that swelled bile into her throat and forced her to bend in half at the abdomen like a wilted flower, her head pushed into her pillow as a moan trembled through her body.
Nine months of living alone, nine months of stone children, had left her white sheets dappled with red, now brown, now gray blood stains. At first Marnie didn’t think she had the strength to leave her bed, but a day of scrubbing and laundry after another birth forced her to stumble from the bed into the garden behind her house.
The birds screeched and flapped into the shadows of trees as the porch door slammed behind her and she waddled, her thighs spread, her nightgown heaped around her waist with a tight fist, then crouched in the garden over a bed of soil and mulch flecked with residual snow.
There were no neighbors close enough to hear her, none to see her, as she uttered a guttural howl. She balanced her weight with her hands while remaining in a low squat, peering between her legs at the stone that peered back at her.
It was smooth, egg-shaped, its narrower crown appearing first. Marnie breathed, spat, and clenched, bearing down on the stone until its fat bottom popped from her, and it rolled on the ground, covered in dirt and blood. She allowed her body to collapse over it, cradling it between her thighs, warm and wet from her insides. Its exterior shell was soft, flexible, like the fontanelle of a child’s skull.
When she could breathe again, when her body could bear its weight on her legs, on her swollen feet, Marnie rose, carrying her stone child to the kitchen. Blood was running down her leg at a faster pace than usual. Marnie took off her nightgown and stuffed it between her legs to quell the flow.
The stone child was heavy, the soft gray of a mourning dove. The shell had hardened and cooled. Marnie turned on the tap, ran lukewarm water down the stone, washing it carefully. The water turned dark then clear. She dried the stone child with a tea towel then set it down with the other stones. It was larger than the others, the length of her forearm. Some of the other stone children caught the light at odd angles, or changed colors, opalescent. This ninth stone was plain, almost somber.
Marnie sat in the faded armchair beside the crib, looking at each stone child. Blood continued to trickle and pool beneath her, even with the nightgown bunched between her thighs. She desperately wanted something to eat–a ripe peach, a thick slice of bread with salted butter, an apple slathered with cinnamon and peanut butter. The cabinets were growing empty since the last grocery delivery, and preparing food felt like an insurmountable task, anyway. Instead, she bit the skin of her knuckles, gazing at the newest birth, while the after-cramps squeezed at her belly.
Each stone child was a mystery. It was only after the divorce and the arrival at her cottage that they began to grow. Her body was turning its unfertilized eggs into something solid, something that could be birthed and remain, rather than be lost. How could she not hold onto that? How could she not love each of them?
Of course, she had performed the perfunctory internet searches, typing in terms like: can my period produce hard substances? Why am I passing stones? Why is my body turning its insides into stone? And her strangest search, typed after a few glasses of wine on a windy night: am I a reversed Medusa?
The only real results she saw were about kidney stones and gallbladders. But these were not kidney stones. They were births, each of them. Soon she gave up wondering why they appeared as the stones piled and her attachment to them grew.
The only helpful result she finally found was about female stress and rage. Rage, she read, can change the female body in ways science has yet to understand. That made sense. She had been angry, was still angry, with her husband and his coldness, his neglect. With her body for betraying her. For promising her a child and delivering shreds of flesh that passed from her with stilled heartbeats. With the doctors who assumed she would be fine after every death she produced. With the word fine and all it buried.
The stone children slept peacefully in their crib, if she could call it sleeping. They had never shown signs of life, never shifted position in the night, or when she wasn’t looking. They never stirred or shuddered, or made any sounds. Yet the newest stone was different. Its largeness could hold a small, but vital, infant. Its perfect egg shape might be hiding or protecting something within. A cool, hard incubator with something warm and alive inside?
This question floated around Marnie like a ghost as she pulled the nightgown from between her thighs to check the bleeding. The steady river had begun to clot, and even though there was a sticky red mess, fresh blood was seeping at a far slower pace. Dizziness gripped her temples, and her stomach groaned for food.
She should eat something. Bathe. Rest. At least put some clothes on. But, there was no one around. No one saw her naked and bloody. And even if someone could see her, she was past the point of caring. The woman who cared was the woman she used to be, married, living in the suburbs, pacing the bathroom floor every month waiting for the double lines to appear on the stick. Another self, one that existed only in the liminal space of memory, and that, too, was growing foggier with every stone child she birthed.
Marnie pulled the newest stone from its place nestled in the crib, next to its siblings. She rocked the stone child in her arms, whispering to it. Her knees wobbled, her arms were leaden, but the stone fit perfectly in the crook of her elbow against her breast that hung pale and flaccid, not ballooned with colostrum and the first spring of milk. Marnie nestled the stone there anyway, imagining she was feeding it. She held it to her ear, listening. There was only silence, but no matter. She needed to know if something lived inside.
The stained nightgown lay in a heap at the foot of the crib, and Marnie carried the stone child through the kitchen and back into the garden. She passed the blood trail that snaked down the porch stairs into the dirt, then she wound through a row of rose bushes to the ancient shed that stood, dilapidated, close to the edge of the woods. When she first moved in, the landlady had warned her not to go in, and she hadn’t. It’s falling apart, she said. There were too many sharp things, as if Marnie were a child who might unwittingly hurt herself. Now, she unlatched the shed door without hesitation, certain she could find something heavy enough to crack stone.
It was warmer inside of the shed, and there was a distinct smell of rotting hay. Spiderwebs dotted the corners and stretched madly across the beams, glinting in caught light from the dusty windows. On a row of shelves leaning against one wall, tools were lined up neatly in sharp contrast with the piles of old machinery, bits of steel and shards of metal, and splinters of wood that stuck out at odd angles from the walls that were collapsing in on themselves.
Marnie picked up each tool, blowing dust off of it, the stone child held warmly in her arm. She needed to find just the right one. It couldn’t be too sharp or heavy. If something lived inside of the stone, she needed to protect it.
At the end of the row, she found a chisel, rusted at the tip, not too sharp, but not too dull. She grabbed the hammer beside it. With both, she could tap on the stone until it cracked without damaging its interior. Marnie held the tools in her hands, breathing heavily. The dust clogged her throat and made her eyes tear, but she wiped her eyes with a bloodstained hand and went back into the yard, letting the shed door slam behind her, frightening the spiders.
In the fresh air, she shivered, her body only now responding to the early March chill. She knelt in the cold, dead grass, her head swimming as she bent over the stone child, a smooth ovoid, silent and unstirring.
Marnie placed her hand on its widest part, feeling again for a heartbeat. For a feeling of breathing, like a chest rising and falling in time. It wasn’t logical to think this stone might hold a child, but then again ever since leaving her marriage, logic had disintegrated until it was as futile as the dried remnants of blood she left behind each month. A passing, a release. She had no space for logic. Logic suddenly felt quite cold, quite male, and she shivered again, pressing her hand harder against the stone child. Whatever she had created, it was hers. Only hers.
The land around her fell silent as she picked up the chisel and hammer. Birds swallowed their notes, and the trees stood motionless, as if watching. Gripping the chisel in one hand, Marnie placed it on the roundest part of the stone, and picked up the hammer with her other hand. She tapped with quiet intention, her brow furrowed. Her movements were gentle yet deliberate, as a mother might remove dirt from a child’s wound, or cut their fingernails, careful not to slice the delicate surrounding skin.
A crack appeared, vein-like, on the stone’s surface. It did not bleed, as Marnie feared it might. Only stone dust appeared, chalky grey, coating her fingers. The crack deepened, spread, and then with a sound that was somewhere between thunder and breaking glass, the stone child split in two.
Marnie let out a low cry, bringing the two pieces to her chest, searching them for a sign of life. They were covered in dust, and even when she blew, it was impossible to see if anything lived inside of the cavity, one side hollow, one side rounded, but with an uninterpretable form. Water. Marnie shuffled inside, her gooseflesh prickling, her skin mottled.
The warm interior of the kitchen greeted her with its low light. She turned on the tap to rinse the cracked stone of its dust and particles, to reveal what form lay hidden beneath the layer of debris. The warm water flowed over her hands, her wrists, her forearms. It was clouded from the stone dust, turning everything into a soupy, muddy paste flecked with iridescent mica so that as the water cleared, it seemed she was gazing into a kaleidoscope.
Marnie used her thumbs to scrub at the round form that was embedded into one side of the stone. There was something soft, almost fleshy, beneath the flecked mud.
It was difficult to make out the features, but the stone child’s face appeared first. Rosebud lips, round cheeks, pale, the color of stone. Eyelids that did not flutter. She cleared the rest of the paste, revealing a chubby body curled into the stone, like a fruit pit.
With great care, she pulled the child from its stone home and held it between her palms. It was roughly the size of a fat eggplant, a perfectly formed infant, but unmoving. Marnie’s chest shrank as she pulled the child to her heart, yearning to feel some echo of a beat, but nothing. She allowed herself one great sob, then, holding the stone child to her chest, she retreated to her bedroom, to the white curtained room with stained sheets and silence.
Marnie climbed into bed, cradling the stone child as she fell into the darkness of exhaustion and sleep that might easily have been the sleep of a stone.
When light peered through her curtains, she turned over, caught in the amnesia of dreams, wondering why there was the muffled sound of an infant crying. It only took a moment before she remembered. There, tucked in her arms, the stone child breathed and gulped, and let out a raucous shriek for its mother. Marnie, feeling the sore fullness of her right breast, tucked its weight instinctually into the stone child’s mouth, and they both drifted off to the rhythmic sound of swallowing.
Shannon Kearns is a queer writer whose debut poetry collection, The Uterus is an Impossible Forest (Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2025), was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award and an Elgin Award. Shannon’s writing has also appeared in HOWL, a women-in-horror anthology, and various literary journals such as Carmen et Error and Sky Island Journal, and forthcoming from Okay Donkey. Her work has been supported by the Yale Writers Workshop and as a resident at Sundress Academy for the Arts. Shannon serves on the Housatonic Book Award panel for poetry. She holds an MA in Literature and an MFA in Creative and Professional Writing with a concentration in Poetry. Shannon teaches writing and literature at Sacred Heart University and lives in Connecticut with her wife and two children.
Instagram: @shannon_mk_writer
Website: www.shannonmkearns.com
Instagram: @shannon_mk_writer
Website: www.shannonmkearns.com
