Kenneth Waldron was a painter – quite a successful one – with a number of famous people seeking him out for portraits. It was mostly thanks to Cynthia Grossman, who had begun as his financial advisor before becoming his personal manager and, finally, his partner.
Continue reading “A Shoddy Business by David Rudd”
Nate’s flight was late landing, it took forever to get off the plane, and then his bag didn’t come out.
“Son of a bitch.”
Continue reading “Baggage By Richard Jones”
Oslac toiled his way through the woods beyond his home, stopping to allow his daughter to catch up to him but not daring to look at her. His ears faithfully absorbed the beautiful sounds of his daughter humming to herself while picking her way among the roots of the trees, and his heart began to splinter. They had been walking for half a day now, their pace waylaid by Kiri’s wandering attention. He heard her attempt to whistle at a bird in a low branch nearby and thought about just turning home.
Still, the thing had to be done.
Continue reading “Kiri by Sarah Hozumi”
Long before Máire’s time, the village of Mallow was a peaceful settlement in Munster, its fields rich and its people rooted deep in the land. But in the late fifteenth century, calamity struck—a raid by an English militia descended like a plague.
Continue reading “Woven from Memory [*] by Dr A.A. Chibi”
I meet Marla on an afternoon train from downtown to tomorrow. The seats are velvet and red, and I notice her because she has desolate eyes dusted in glitter and a smile that reminds me of a rotting cantaloupe. She is looking out the window like she wants to fuck the mountains that pass us by. I am looking at her.
Continue reading “Blossoming Neon by Robin Linden”
“Not trying to be nosy, Wilton, but why the latex gloves?”
Wilton, armed with a rational explanation, chuckles. “Well, Mr. Simms, I contracted a rash working in the flower garden, and my hands are slathered in oint—”
Continue reading “Scales by David Henson”
In the summer of 1997, when most men of his age were discovering the quiet dignity of cholesterol, Gopal Banerjee decided to make a perfume that would outlive death itself. Not metaphorically, he meant it quite literally. “Eternity,” he called it, though Calvin Klein had already used the name. Gopal didn’t mind; he believed trademarks were for those who lacked vision.
Continue reading “The Scent of Eternity by Susmita Mukherjee”
(The image is of the actual Andy, who graciously posed)
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Charity and Baby Hope had been searching for the perfect place to build a castle. Magick Minion Andy had done some in person searches and returned with the best prospect, which he explained to Charity in his surprisingly good Wiccan. “Surprisingly good” because your basic Cat, although all are born understanding the Wiccan tongue, has a bit of difficulty speaking it due to some of the trickier elongated vowels. Whenever your basic Cat meets a difficulty that really is not his problem he ignores it, but Andy is not your basic Cat, even though he does somewhat closely resemble a heavily used mop head more than he does an immortal Magick Gray Tabby.
Continue reading “A Castle For the Roller Derby Queen”
In the morning, the sun had long since risen above the horizon, casting stark, foreboding shadows over the Yampa River. We stood at the edge of the water, my wooden boat bobbing gently on the surface. The wind whispered secrets through the cottonwoods and I felt the weight of my history bearing down upon us. We had married, and this handsome kind man had promised to spend the rest of his life with me, knowing I was doomed to run this river every two weeks for all time.
We pushed off from the shore.
Continue reading “Hell’s Half Acre by Danyl A Doyle”
Several months after her daughter turned herself into a cat, Ahmya’s mother grew sufficiently brave to begin the onerous task of cleaning and tidying Ahmya’s bedroom, in readiness of her girl’s discharge from hospital. Amongst the usual debris of a Japanese teenager’s room, Ahmya’s mother discovered, between the pages of a diary she was loath to read, a fairytale written more than a year before. The girl’s mother had begun to return the diary to its drawer when the lose leaves fell to the floor; in that moment the mother believed she would never forget the gentle slap against her ankles—it felt like a scream, it reminded her of her daughter’s many subtle hints concerning what she was experiencing. Ahmya had shown her mother the fairytale, She’d been obliged to read it while her daughter watchfully waited—but she had not understood, had given back the story and poured a gin. And so she paused her tidying to read the story with more care. Later, as Ahmya’s mother took the train to the hospital, a sea of tears pooled in her head and she feared she would drown—she did not wish to swim. She reddened in shame. Second readings are devastating in two ways. First there is recognising yourself as a shallow reader—how could you have not understood before what is on second reading so obvious? Secondly, you must admit to your own callousness for relying on platitudes rather than taking seriously what the writer is trying to say. Ahmya’s fairytale was more than a fable; the story was a wish for her mother to understand the things her daughter was otherwise unable to express.
Continue reading “Second Reading by Antony Osgood”
literally stories 