Her name was Winona. Winona on damp, drizzly school days when she raised her hand fearless of appearing callous or insufferable. Winnie on wine-dark nights she downed canned gin cocktails and let her nose go runny under porch lights. Nona inside her honey-sulked home where windows overlooked fields of magnolias whose petals sunk under the weight of thunderstorms.
But she was always Winona to me.
Continue reading “Always, Winona by Hannah Richardson”
Sarah parked in the small lot beside Lava’s Bar on Lower Main not knowing what to expect. The ancient and industrial part of Wailuku looked the same as it had when she was a kid: non-descript dingy buildings, narrow alleys with the odd apartment sprinkled in, a snuffling dog on the corner. Despite the post-sunset, orangey sky, the area emanated an enticing melancholy, a feeling she remembered from the seat of her dad’s tow truck back in the early seventies en route to the junkyard, stereo shop, or TV repair. But now, there’s a bar! Maybe there was always a bar—or bars—here, but bars weren’t on her radar in those days, obviously. She’d always been curious about the dusty, mid-island pit of industrial Wailuku, compared to the tourist-dotted beaches in Kihei, where she had grown up a mere ten or so miles away.
Continue reading “Lava’s Bar by Marisa Mangani”
Bernie loved this day and age.
Before, he was always cold.
He never had enough to eat.
And he hated to admit it, his weakness, his curse, his companion, his reason to stay alive was the sauce. These days he had as much booze as he wanted…Well…
Continue reading “Sign Of The Times Too (The Mile-Stone Inspector)”
But First a Special Announcement
The Special Announcement:
Our Sunday features continue to thrive, especially the long standing rerun and the relatively new interview segment. And what we call the Auld Author has done well, but we feel that restricting it to the fairly obscure and/or nearly forgotten is unfair to well known works, which need to be kept alive lest they fall into obscurity.
So we proudly announce that articles about famous authors and books will now be welcomed. For example, you may either extol something like Stephen King’s unabridged The Stand or even let fly against it because you feel that the short version is better. (That is an actual opinion held by yours truly.)
We believe that highlighting works that more than one person is familiar with will stimulate conversation to an even higher degree.
Still, if you do have an obscure or lost subject, we are still happy to see it come in.
One bit of caution: back in the old days, in New York City, there was a practice called “log rolling” (called that for a reason that appears lost to time), in which author friends who did reviews at different publications gave each other rave notices to plump up sales. I would never suggest that any of our esteemed contributors or readers would use this feature to tout a pal’s book if I didn’t believe that some of you are capable of it!
We hope to see your articles flood the inbox. And if there are any questions, we will be happy to answer them.
We Now Return to Regular Programming
The worst thing that can happen to an author is to become the object of assigned reading in high school. Somehow William Shakespeare continues to survive that curse, but it has been the kiss of death for historical authors who do not always deserve the “boring” label. Boring is in the yawn of the beholder and should not be an automatic reaction to something your fifth period Lit teacher has dumped into your life.
Continue reading “Week 488: The Classics and “Hey, the teacher smells like beer.””
“It’s hard to believe I exist in this place,” I tell my wife Rita.
On this trip to her hometown L. A. I’ve felt increasingly unreal. My eyes scan the ground, try to see this city at a basic level. There’s too much to take in if I raise my sight, the sheet white mist, streets lined with tents, people staggering and shouting.
Continue reading “La Cienaga Boulevard by Harrison Kim”
The sun is too hot for May, and my arm is starting to burn. That’s what I’m thinking of when I’ve missed my afternoon bus. That and my sister, Julia. My name is Elijah William Scott. And I am the reason my sister is dead. There’s a shortcut you can take off of Sawmill Road to get to our house. I don’t take it anymore. I don’t need to look at the drawings, the flowers, the “We Miss You” signs. It’s all bullshit. It doesn’t mean anything. She won’t know.
Continue reading “Julia by Chloe M. Dehon”
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“Hi,” I said when Anna-Lou finally answered the door. She looked like hell but that greatly improved when I showed her a thirty milligram bottle of Methadone. I had guessed her situation correctly and for the first time in ages I had the power to ease suffering.
“Sarah–what?” She said, confused, as she had a right to be. I imagine she experienced a moment similar to wishing for something utterly impossible and seeing it come true. In the forty years I had known her, not once had I directly addressed “her condition.”
Continue reading “The Designated Shepherd by Leila Allison”
When I inherited my great-uncle’s fortune, I quit my job at the drycleaners, but I kept driving my thirdhand Nissan. I didn’t stop shopping for housewares at Twice But Nice, and I even renewed the lease on my two-bedroom walk-up on Standard Street.
Continue reading “Omaha Hold ‘Em by Shoshauna Shy”
On July 3rd, 1903, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show gave a performance in Abergavenny, a market town in the Black Mountains of South Wales. The town sits surrounded by seven hills, but the most prominent is The Sugar Loaf (it’s Welsh name is Pen-y-fâl), which looms over the town. At the close of his show, Buffalo Bill annouced to the crowd his intention to climb The Sugar Loaf the next morning. It was said that, the next day, Bill was accompanied up the mountain by half the adults and all the children of the town.
Continue reading “Buffalo Bill’s Day Out by Michael Bloor”
Mr. Balding, our 5th grade Social Studies teacher, was so old that the Germans shot the hair from his head on two separate occasions and in two separate wars. Mr. Balding was so old that he hated and despised discussing his age. He was so old that the hairs in his ears had fossilized and had grown longer than the hair on his head. He was so old that his cataracts had cataracts. He was so old that he couldn’t remember being our age. And, yet, in a weak attempt to connect to what he imagined to be our violent sensibilities, once a month, or so, some military and patriotic force compelled him to tell gory and graphic war stories from behind the full view of the obit page of Peoples Gazette—our local and irregularly published bi-weekly.
Continue reading “Nobody Ever Retires, Even After They’re Dead [1] by J Bradley Minnick”
literally stories 