As a kid, he was the one who found nickels, dimes, and quarters on the sidewalk, got two candy bars to fall into the well of the vending machine when he had only paid for one, and succeeded where so many others had failed in bashing open the piñata. Two or three times, when he wasn’t ready for a test, the teacher wouldn’t show up. Test cancelled. Stuff like that. His whole life.
Continue reading “Why Is Jake Always So Lucky? by Paul Crehan”
The pub had closed, the last bus still hadn’t arrived, the thin drizzle gave way to rain of biblical ferocity. Jimmy stood sheltering in the entrance to the dress shop, like a novelty dummy, while Willie (his tongue loosened by seven pints of IPA) explained about the likely existence of A Deid Agnostics’ Processing Panel.
Continue reading “Late-Night Theological Breakthrough by Michael Bloor”
I’d never been blown up before.
We were patrolling in the middle of nowhere during the late afternoon of another 110 degree day, with nobody around except a goatherd in the distance, tending a few scrawny goats. The IED must have been under a pressure plate in the road.
A slow-motion movie sort of thing is how I’d heard survivors describe explosions. Not me. One minute, I was in the Humvee’s right rear seat behind the vehicle commander, Staff Sergeant Bennett, getting my kidneys pureed on the rough road. Then I heard a roar like the sound of a passing locomotive. A white light filled the cabin like some nuclear camera flash and I felt a searing wind on my face. Then I was somersaulting through the air with my synapses flashing, envisioning how hard I might land. Pretty hard, it turns out. The ground rushed towards me, and I heard a crunch as I landed face-first in the dirt. And then the lights went out.
Continue reading “We Two Soldiers by Mark Schafron”
On this first day of May, I return to the abandoned farm I once owned and stand in a pasture now overgrown with creeping jenny vines and clumps of brilliant yellow buttercups. Slatey gray clouds collide above me and fold into each other in a birdless sky. A whispering breeze ruffles the tops of the leafing red maple trees. Half a century ago, I found an abandoned narrow-gauge rail track set on hand-hewn locust ties at the back of the farm. I was unaware of their presence until months after the purchase and could only guess their purpose. Shuffling several ideas, I thought they might have been used to bring wheeled carts of fieldstone or firewood to the bottom of the hill. Or, perhaps maple sap to boil in large vats for spring syrup. I enquired at the local historical society and asked my neighbors, but no one had an answer, only more guesses.
Continue reading “The Narrow Gauge by Ed N White”
March was a bitter month for everyone involved. Jodi was born into one, like Eric Clapton, her childhood idol. In another March, thirty years ago, Clapton’s four-year-old son ran into a hole in the wall. The hole was supposed to be a window, but it had no glass on it. A scream tore through the house, and the mother understood right away that it didn’t come from the boy; the boy was busy plowing through the air, down fifty-three floors.
Continue reading “March by Sarp Sozdinler”
They found me floating face down in the motel swimming pool, a seedy place off the Sunset Strip where we’d been partying. A janitor heard the splash. He dragged me up to the patio and slapped my cheeks, which was funny. I was already blue, and now some random guy was hitting me. We kissed. His breath choked me. I woke, briefly. Curled over, shivering on the lip of the deep end, my reflection rippling beneath as my lungs spasmed dry.
Continue reading “Emergence Delirium by Danielle Altman”
When Garf opened his refrigerator, he saw a jar of purple pickles beside the carton of expired milk. This was strange as, only yesterday, they were green. Garf stood in his itchy annoyance before the refrigerator, his red, black-striped robe hanging off his slumped body like an old, worn-out curtain.
Continue reading “Garf and the Purple Pickles by Landon Galliott”
This was the day I lost my soul and I suspect Stu did too, considering… We got our daily warm RC Colas at Mullens Grocery store. Mr. Mullens gave us a skeptical once over, trying to figure out what we lifted. We wore giant parkas, that could hide a dirt bike or whatever we could grab. Our frugal mother’s bought them extra-large hoping we could wear them from the fifth grade to high school, perhaps forever. Mine was dark blue and Mom already washed it, and it wasn’t even dirty. This was evident because the once fine furry texture around the stove pipe hood’s edge was all gray and gooey. Like globs of wet dog fur. Thanks, Mom. My cousin Stu’s coat was light green with yellow stitching. The hood still had the fake rabbit’s fur look–shiny and bristly. Maybe it was real rabbit fur? How should I know? I was only ten.
Continue reading “Where Everything Got Broken by Christopher J. Ananias”
Re-Reading ‘Lucky Jim’
Note: This review contains spoilers.
I’m a big fan of re-reading, a sovereign cure for Life’s Disappointments. Whenever you injure your foot at the start of a walking holiday, or your team gets relegated, or the school bully turns up again as your new line manager, there’s one guaranteed restorative: re-reading a favourite story. And not just any favourite story: for my money, it’s got to be either a galloping adventure story, or a comic novel. (Notice I don’t say ‘favourite author:’ Stevenson’s ‘Treasure Island,’ or ‘Kidnapped,’ definitely fall into the ‘sovereign cure’ category, but don’t ever pick up his ‘St Ives’).
Continue reading “Writers Reading. Review by Mick Bloor”
“She was reckless and calculated. Sharp but dreamy. I think she was lost. Overcome by the world’s endless configurations.” A wave of chills swept over me. Papa was only eloquent when talking about her, so I tried to soak it all in–every syllable, hand gesture, intonation–to paint a picture of her in my head. Papa never even showed me photos, because as he said, “It’s in the past.” I had stored a few features such as angular nose and fair skin in my reservoir until then, but those were surface-level. I had been yearning for characteristics to vitalize the shell of a person in my head.
Continue reading “Remnants of a Silence by Saul Brauns”
literally stories 