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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All Stories, General Fiction

The Violin by Frank Jamison

Whistler stood in the weeds, leaning against the brick wall of the old train station and listening to the susurration of wind over the tracks. The others might have known he was there, might have seen him suddenly after looking once and not seeing him as the wind stirred through the cyclone fence, wafting the trumpet vines and grasses down near the old, rusting boxcar where Nathan lived, but he saw no one. Bobo and Saint Louis lived at the other end of the yard in a faded red caboose, but nobody knew where Whistler lived. He appeared and disappeared. No one knew.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Deep Inside Woodwards by Harrison Kim

Too sunny on the belt buckles, blinding my brown eyes.  Hooking them down to the sidewalk, I take control of my hazy head, walking quick with the crowds, watching for loose wallets.  I’m skinny, so I slip between pants.  It’s a familiar circuit on rainy days too, under the umbrellas and inside the handbags.  Hey!  There’s the known mullet cut!  Yes, over by the plate glass doors.  That’s Ed up there, jostling just up the Hastings sidewalk, debating with Miss Jehovah Witness, holding her pamphlets.

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Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction

To Anacortes by Susan DeFelice

Leena’s fingernails are thick as scallop shells, her case worker Victoria observes. Her clinical afterthought is shoe tying and sewing must be near impossible. They are driving to a campground outside of Anacortes where Leena will stay with friends. Borne from desperation and desolation the transitional housing definition has expanded to include camping. To pass the time as they drive Leena recounts traumas with her parents, ex-husband, kids – especially her youngest daughter who kicked her out.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Sofa Surfing by Tim Frank

When Jeff built a water slide on the stairs of his friend Andy’s house, he knew he’d crossed a line and he couldn’t go back. He had been sofa surfing for months, alienating all his friends and now Andy would surely turn against him too. So, Jeff decided to go all out.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Horror

Paraffin Lamp by Alex Sinclair – Warning – strong language and content that some readers will find upsetting

“Verminous dole scrounging deadbeats poetically whingeing that’s all it is, lamenting wistfully about the plight of their work-shy genes. The Celtic curse so it is, forever waxing philosophical about being a shite for brains’ pisshead.”

He stops. He has run away with himself and he can’t remember what he was talking about.

Packy is barely cognizant of where he is. He exists in half dream, half myth.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Air Guitar Eddy by Richard Leise

Because we didn’t know his name, and he played air guitar outside Family Dollar, we called him Air Guitar Eddy.  He had two dogs.  We called the pit bull Pitbull, and the other, a terrier, Funky Bitch.  Funky Bitch was pregnant, bursting at the seams, and she would sit and pant in the shade.  Because it was Family Dollar, Air Guitar Eddy, Pitbull, and Funky Bitch didn’t get much by way of charity.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

The Straight Road South by Harrison Kim

Tex and I rode the straight road south with a shaggy haired driver in a tight green shirt.  Tex leaned over from the back seat. “We’re pretty hungry.  Can you give us those food stamps on your dash?”

“I guess so”  The driver’s voice quavered. He braked a little too close to the car in front of us.  Then he lifted his head to look in the rear view mirror.  “Maybe if you go swimming with me?”

“We need the food stamps,” said Tex.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Caiman Hide Boots by Harrison Kim 

Someone stole my caiman hide boots from underneath my styrofoam homeless shelter mattress.  My boots are a rich polished brown with chunky scale nubs rising from the foot area.  My Dad gifted the comfy caimans to me as a 27th birthday and university graduation gift, he purchased them online from Leathers of Louisiana.  It took me seven years to obtain my BA in General Studies due to my schizoaffective brain problems, though my measured IQ is 132.  Psychosis is eating away at my cerebrum. Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell what is real and what is illusion, but I know for sure my boots are missing.

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