Emmet Emafo started his day running. Broken branches and shredded herbs told the story of the hail storm that woke him during the night. A thin mist still fell. A canvas of fall leaves swayed in trees. He became one with the morning light and shadow. The slap of his footfalls on the wet cement comforted him.
Continue reading “The Executor by Barb Lundy”
“What can you tell me about Eustace Randolph? What sort of man was he?” I asked as I took out my notebook. Gillian Reynolds, Secretary of the Friends of Eagle House, let her excited smile slip slightly at the corners.
Continue reading “The Photographer’s House by Sarah Jackson”
“You’re a kid,” he says, and his voice is so absolute that it leaves no room for argument.
Meesha isn’t sure she’d be able to argue even if he sounded uncertain. Her eyes are blank, her lips locked in that little downward position that everyone claims neutral (that everyone knows is actually a faint frown), and as she stands in front of this leathery heap of a man, she can’t bring herself to care that she’s been caught.
Continue reading “Room For the Dead, Room For the Damned by Ella Paul”
MC “Laura” is nothing short of honest, which gives Hugh Cron’s Concealer an extra level of irony. At her interview for what we Americans call Unemployment Insurance, she divulges the reasons for her loss of a job–and how. Her delightfully profane observations and storytelling (only half-heartedly, so it seems, warned off by her interviewer) say much about the downside of the workplace and people in general.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Concealer by Hugh Cron”
Fang-Liu House is an old hotel near the entertainment district. Sitting in the middle of the row, its dilapidated plaster crumbling out of hairline cracks caused by creeping vines.
On the front of the house hangs a plastic banner, secured to the balcony, the red faded to salmon, and the yellow lettering almost white, “CRIMINAL CUSTOMERS NOT WELCOME. SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY WILL BE REPORTED TO THE AUTHORITIES.”
Continue reading “Fang-Liu House by S.Y. Chen”
So is it true, the girl with electric blue hair began in mock contemplation, that toilets flush the other way in New Zealand? She set a half empty bottle of Carlsberg on the bar and looked at Connor, her face all anticipation. Connor was absorbed in pulling the perfect pint of Guinness. Not the first time he’d been asked this. The brew settled, he removed the excess foam with the deft swipe of a plastic spatula and placed the beer on a coaster in front of the girl’s aloof boyfriend. He could smell the leather of their jackets. Toilets, sinks, showers, Connor answered, nodding for emphasis. He knew it was a myth. Satisfied, the girl slapped her boyfriend lightly on the arm as if she’d just won a bet.
Continue reading “Volunteer by David Patten”
Looking from one end of a story to another is enlightening in most circumstances. Often the surprises on tap happen out of the blue … or take a piece of forever to come around.
Continue reading “Burial of a Dark Charger by Tom Sheehan”
“Wake up, rascals. See who is here,” trills our aunt Sivamathi.
Her high-pitched shrill vibrates off her tongue against her palate and pierces through our sleep.
“It must be Muttu, that rickety idiot, come to torture us with puzzles,” I guess.
With sunshine trembling on our eyelashes and seeping into our bodies, we two brothers continue to stretch ourselves lazily.
Continue reading “Bulls and Blood, Line and Lineage by Chitra Gopalakrishnan”
Callahan wishes the voices would stop, but they never do. Some are soft as a caress, some are screamed out shrill. Some are wistful sighs of longing, some are determined mantras. Some are woven with glee, some are drowned in sorrow. No matter what they are, they never stop, swirling around his head, taunting him to listen, daring him to comfort, daring him to help, daring him to laugh, daring him to cry.
Continue reading “Autumn Eyes Lost, Autumn Eyes found by Anmitra Jagannathan”
Long time site friend David Henson has published everything from tragedy to jocularity with us. He excels at stretching reality until you believe that, why yes, I can see a future in which handling a black mamba for forty seconds without dying can improve one’s credit score.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Byrds Syndrome by David Henson”
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