All Stories, General Fiction

Get Yourself a Hotplate, Pal by Daniel Crépault

Cedric stepped down from the van and squinted toward the storefront. The icy wind roared through the low buildings of the industrial park, passing through his threadbare overcoat and making his skin ache. Reaching back into the vehicle’s dank warmth, he rolled up a small sleeping bag and stuffed it into the footwell along with the small camping stove. He carefully locked the door and walked across the snowy parking lot toward Rick’s Repair Shop, a small red and yellow building behind Main Street.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Man With a Shopping Cart by Tom Bentley-Fisher

William stands on the upper level of a parkade leaning on a shopping cart some employee had forgotten to rack up with the others. He’s waiting for a friend to pick up a jug of organic milk. He knows his friend will be forever and come up the elevator loaded with ‘two-for-one’s’ and any specials he can find on pasta, ice cream and pineapple juice, not to mention a stack of car magazines. William doesn’t mind waiting. It’s two in the morning and a beautiful night in San Francisco, the concrete rooftop a checker board of symmetrical parking spaces, the only vehicle on the horizon his friend’s sky blue Dodge Caravan, clean and American in its loneliness.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

The Wheelbarrow Man of East Hastings Street by Harrison Kim

As Travis crosses East Hastings Street, he hears the high trembly voice of Sasha Asputi.  She’s trilling a speech, waving her skinny arms in the air in the centre of a small circle of men and their shopping carts, “Tonight we homeless will take back our rightful space.”

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction

Lions in Winter by Neil James

Crossing the city for a night shift was the last thing Luna wanted to do. The temperature was dropping, and a biting wind whipped through the dark streets, driving a fierce snowstorm, turning pavements white. Luna huddled in the broken shelter, but the bus- always late- was nowhere in sight.

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General Fiction, Short Fiction

The Margin of the River by Mitchell Toews

I finished shaving. A $10 coffee shop gift card was in the car, and although I knew I should hit the weights and take my usual morning walk, I also felt like a lazy day was not a bad idea.

Janice nudged me aside on her way to the ensuite.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘Dunno,’ I said while pawing through the underwear drawer for just the right pair—supportive but not too bossy.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Bully Boys and Navvy Boots by Pam Knapp

We’d always egg one another on, seeing who’d be first to set her off. Every kid I knew did it. It was just a game. Her mind had long gone. She didn’t remember that it’d been done before. Each time she was teased was like the first. We’d wind her up and the payoff was one of her screams. Major horror screams! And then we’d leg it, pissing ourselves laughing!  Like I say: just a game.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Helen’s Kitchen, 3:30 a.m. by Brian Clark

Returning from the bathroom for the second time that night, her eyes heavy with sleep, Helen squinted down the dark hallway at the faint white glow coming from the kitchen.

Did I forget to turn off the light? she wondered.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Sunday Whatever Horton Hears You by Rosemary Grant

This is another of those stories that we really wanted to publish but for various reasons it wasn’t a good fit for the usual posts. It was too good to pass over and so – we give you-

The paramedics found him in the snow at a bus stop, nursing what they called a Hennepin Avenue cocktail: grape juice and Listerine, mixed half-and-half. When he got to the emergency department, he did nothing but stand at the door of his room and stare through the glass. I walked in and introduced myself as his nursing assistant. He took off his Horton Hears A Who! t-shirt and said he was cold. I asked if he wanted a sandwich. He replied: “I never killed anyone.”

He stood in the corner of the room as I took his blood pressure and temperature. He didn’t look at me. His arms were circled with lines of round cigarette burns, spiraling down his palm and across his hands. Seven on each finger, four on each thumb.

When I left his room, the doctor was at the door talking to his nurse. He couldn’t stay, the doctor said. He was sober enough to walk and talk. He wasn’t suicidal or homicidal. He burned himself and drank—but that was how he lived—and maybe he acted psychotic, but only God could say for sure, and he didn’t meet criteria for admission, and anyway the hospital was full and the hospitalist would spit in his face if he asked for another bed.

“Should I call a cab?” said the nurse.

“He wants to walk home.”

He walked out into the snow as I was checking in a woman who had three children with the flu. I didn’t see him again.

Rosemary Grant

This story really impacted the team here and so we approached the author to suggest we link to a couple of sites that care for homeless and desperate people.

Madison Street Medicine brings together doctors and healthcare professionals to provide healthcare for homeless people in Madison, WI https://www.madisonstreetmedicine.org/about/.

and

MEDiC is a system of student-run free clinics affiliated with the University of Wisconsin that provides free care to underserved populations, primarily homeless people and undocumented immigrants https://www.med.wisc.edu/education/medic/.

All Stories, General Fiction

Also Henry by Tom Sheehan

Jim Hedgerow was the boss of Riverbank Cemetery’s burial crew, and this morning he was scratching to make sure he had enough help to “open up” a few places for “quick deposit.” At 7:30 the sun had jumped overhead, birds had their choirs in practice, and he had seen hard evidence of overnight guests in among the trees and full foliage at the edge of the cemetery along Fiske Brook.

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