Our boy is in trouble again. Belvin has done something. This time it is all over the news. The red drag of stoplights. “Why are we even going?” says Genie.
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Tag: Short Fiction
Where the Dead Live by Jennifer Maloney
My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
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Katrina by Richard Krause
What is immoral is simply what we don’t want people to do. If anything is expeditious to us, of benefit, if it accords with our own plan, we will not only sanction but applaud what would otherwise outrage us.
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Good for the Garden by T.G. Roettiger
In the low light of early evening, Micki Gehl strolled along the path that ran from her house to the first of her three chicken coops, tossing scratch feed to her hens. Chickens were the love of her life. Their attention provided all the affection she needed and their eggs, along with the apples from her orchard, provided all the income she needed. An extensive garden supplied most of her food. She smiled a bit to herself; she truly enjoyed her life.
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Immortality By Frederick K Foote
“Why, oh, why Negro niece, do you sit there on the steps and cry?”
“Oh, woe is upon me and ruthlessly rides me because my father, your brother, my mother’s husband, has died. And our weeping is without end.”
“Ah, but your father was 80 and 10. It was about time for the old Negro’s story to end.”
“True, true, but he will be gone, his voice and presence will be missed, his words will be longed for, and his absence will leave a great emptiness.”
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518: Toys and If I’ve Hit Girls in Leotards Once I’ve Done it a Million Times
Toys
During my decade at Goodwill I had many jobs. I recall one fondly: Toy evaluation. It involved going through the massive amount of donated toys and separating the trash from the saleable.
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Fledgling by Tammy Komoff
“Mama said the feathers are my psychosis,” Ava says. Her gaze drifts away from me, down toward the red and blue dancing lights. I edge closer along the ledge. “Your ambulance looks like a toy from up here.” She picks at scabs covering her arms, with blood-encrusted fingernails.
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The Ring by Donna Slade
Gramercy Tavern has been a New York City staple since the early nineties. With a spacious bar and wonderful food it has set the gold standard for what casual, fine dinning should be. The restaurant is more formal than the bar but the bar food is just as delicious. Although… the pace in the dining room is different, with the kitchen and the patrons performing a type of Kabuki Theater. The waitstaff, with just the right amount of reverence to the kitchen, serves exquisite dishes to a discerning clientele and in return that clientele pairs each course with the absolute best wine, hand selected by the Sommelier on duty. You ask for their opinion out of respect for the food and they never disappoint. And in the end all pay homage to the shrine of Meyer/Anthony. The only problem with the dining room? There is always a second seating and no matter how well you behave, eventually you will need to leave.
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Adverse Possession by Ted Gross
Ed liked to blame the couch, though there was more to it, but that part didn’t help.
What Kaitlyn did, she went out and spent four thousand dollars on it, and then when they delivered the thing it didn’t fit in the elevator. Ed watched them try removing the little ceiling panel, which he didn’t even know came off, but even so they couldn’t angle it in.
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Life’s A Tin Of Peaches by Leanne Simmons
Frank likes motorbikes and works nights. He’s in bed when I get up for school in the mornings, but I know he’s made it home because there’s a grimy ring around the sink and rust-coloured wee in the toilet. His sandwich box, with a crumpled crisp packet and eggy clingfilm inside, is always by the kettle for Mum to clean out.
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