Category: General Fiction

All Stories, General Fiction

What’s Left by Todd Dodson

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He settled the last of the old Amazon boxes in the bed of the pickup, an intractable, unstrung guitar neck poking out from the middle, with the faded moon looming eerie in the midday sky like the cover of some science fiction paperback. He threw a blue tarp over the mess, then took his time stitching a length of twine through the grommets, around the cleats, a clever hitch knot at the end, even opening the driver’s side door before finally, finally turning to me standing in the hot pea gravel, glass of ice tea melting in my hand, before saying, “Well, that’s it.”      

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Yellowing Yellow Room by Colby Loucks

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I am sitting in a windowless room in Africa’s Congo Basin wishing I had taken French instead of Latin in high school. My mom forced me to take Latin, saying it would help me become a doctor. What a load of crap! Or as they say in Latin “Quid onus crap!” Also, I am not a doctor but a middling middle-aged ecologist who is at this very moment sweating through my t-shirt, sharing a room not much bigger than gas station bathroom with one Congolese priest and one Spanish priest. They are not praying but discussing bribery. I know this because I did end up taking four semesters of Spanish in college, and heard the Spanish priest say “Quanto dinero?” The Congolese priest whispered back to him in French with something that sounded like “Quanto dinero?” But it is definitely French. I know this because his earnest whispers are as soft as crushed velvet, the syllables gently rolling over each other. No other language but French does this.

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All Stories, General Fiction

AI Husband by Claire Massey

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Madeline tells her virtual assistant to play the invitation again. Did she really hear the antiquated phrase, in-person? Pandora says, “repeating anniversary party details from George and Lydia” and yep, there’s cousin George’s avatar, declaring he’s 40 years married in 2040 (!) and guests can attend the celebration by holographic teleportation or in-person.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Romance

We Were Everything and Nothing by Lydia Baham

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It was the second day of our trip to Madrid. We were in a restaurant not far from Plaza Mayor with the massive stone walls whispering the secrets they knew, trying to eavesdrop on ours. We had almost finished the bottle of Cava, I was a little dizzy from the alcohol and too high on you, my friend. You watched me with those magnet eyes of yours, a wicked smile played on your lips, and I was asking myself if you’re even real.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Missed Connections by J.D. Strunk

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On that day, as on most days, the 8:22 was right on time. Book in hand, I boarded a nearly empty car and secured a seat facing west, so as to avoid the blistering fire of a Colorado sunrise. The city burned amber and rose as the doors dinged closed and the train lurched forward. I gazed out the window as we glided out of downtown, past campus, and under 6th Avenue. At Broadway we met I-25, which we would parallel for the remainder of the journey south.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Ta Da Dum Bing – a story by Michael Henson

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The L train had stopped at the Lorimer Street Station on its way from Manhattan back to Brooklyn when the young man sensed a sudden excitement in the car. He raised his eye from the book he was reading as a full-size stand-up bass sailed past. In moments, a trio of Mexican musicians had set up in the middle of the car.

He nudged his girlfriend “Look,” he said.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Poisson regression by JJ de Melo

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Poisson Regression by JJ de Melo

Sweat sticks me to the couch. Like a bug in fly tape. The windows are open, but I only have one fan. It barely helps. I’m breathing hot soup in my apartment and I want out. To leave. Take a walk. But it’s not safe. Not yet.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Nana Won’t Rise Up from the Dead by Margo Griffin

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I peel off the paint bottle’s seal, and a strong chemical smell wafts off the top. The scent reminds me of the hospital’s ICU corridors and the ache that filled my chest when my mother and I entered Room 520A to see Nana a few days before. I swirl around different colored paints and recreate the fiery orange sunset and the same brilliant blue sky from last year when Nana and I walked along the shore during our annual beach trip after Easter Sunday Mass. My little brother plunges without thought into his palette and haphazardly washes his brush against his egg’s shell. His designs turn out formless, and his colors mix into drab shades of brown and gray. He eyes my egg and then looks down at his, and his cheeks flush. His eyes flash in warning as his idea is hatched in seconds. Still, I don’t move fast enough and watch in horror as he smashes the Easter Egg I painted for Nana to the floor, sending pieces of memory flying through the air; these things are fragile. 

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