It was his accent she noticed first. She was walking past, carrying a tray of drinks to a nearby table. He was deep in conversation with another woman, but she slowed her steps at the sound of his soft vowels, his rising and falling intonation. He was British, maybe Scottish, she wasn’t sure, she had never been to the UK, she had barely left Pennsylvania, but she liked his accent. It was foreign, sophisticated.
Continue reading “The Lost Voice by Brooke Gilbert”
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”
“The journey of life is like a man riding a bicycle. We know he got on the bicycle and started to move. We know that at some point he will stop and get off. We know that if he stops moving and does not get off, he will fall off.” — William Golding
Queens, New York 1953
“Hop on,” the familiar voice coaxed with a slick, avuncular oiliness. “I’ll take you home.” Olga recognized the soft, confident tones with just a hint of adolescent huskiness. Big Dan was her brother’s older friend who would come around every now and then to work on their bicycles in the backyard. “Your brother said it’s okay.”
Olga glanced up from the schoolyard garden plot where she had been gathering wildflowers, pressed a golden buttercup under her chin, and smiled timidly at the hulking teenaged figure towering over her, blocking the afternoon sunlight. She assembled the feathery bouquet of cosmos and ranunculus into a tidy bundle and obediently sprang up on Big Dan’s sturdy bicycle with her spindly five-year-old’s legs, shyly settling herself on the crossbar.
Continue reading ” In Tandem by E. C. Traganas”
Listen officer, kids die all the time, you know. Trust me. And seventeen isn’t that young. But his blood tasted like mine, that was a surprise. So was his walk; wobble really. Monnie told me he needed a few more, “Get it girl,” that’s what she said, and she said it just like that, like her lips were dripping with sticky spit and she was slurping it back up. I couldn’t, not just then, couldn’t give him what he need.
Continue reading “Fake Teeth Yarn by Kiersen Clerkin”
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