[by Kris Faatz]
Joseph knew his violin wouldn’t cover up the noise when the mail came at noon. Even so, at a quarter to twelve, he took the instrument out of the case because a hard knot had formed in the pit of his stomach and he didn’t know any other way to get through the daily torture. He tucked the violin under his chin, studied the dripping gray pines outside his apartment’s picture window and let his fingers trace arpeggios he hadn’t had to think about for years. Continue reading Solo Fantasy
[by Linda McCullough Moore]
I am sitting in a coffee shop, attempting to outwit my life. It’s gotten out of hand—hard as that that may be to reckon, given the fuzzy silhouette it casts on even brightly-lighted days. My life, a tiny, cramped and cosseted production that fills up only the odd corners of the house I bought to live it in. Today I think it would so easily fit into a tiny, one-room flat, between the hot plate and the daybed. I take it out for solitary walks around the block; it suffers no sea change. It will not vary from itself in one iota, no matter that I use a cattle prod electrified by the same power company that fuels my antique television for seven hours at a stretch.
Hence: the coffee shop.
Hence: the intention to trade my life in on a saner model. Continue reading Freeze
[by Dan Stout]
fettuccine et crevettes en sauce à la crème bayou
Begin by placing the Seasoning Mix in a small bowl. Refer to page 842 for Seasoning Mix ingredients. Glance at the clock and roll your eyes as you wonder how many more detours you’ll find in this recipe.
Place the ingredients for the Cream Mixture (a single 12oz can of evaporated milk and ½ cup cream cheese) into a blender and puree until smooth and creamy. Announce that you’ll have dinner ready soon. Listen for a reply. When you hear only the sound of the television, peek into the living room to make sure she’s still there. She is. Continue reading Fettuccine and Shrimp in Bayou Cream Sauce
[by Joel Reeves] Egladine, the witch of the Old Northern Forest, squinted through pale blue eyes at the large black tome opened on the oaken table. Like all witches, she had green skin, a wart on her cheek, a tuft of hair sprouting from her chin, a pointed hat, and of course, a large bubbling iron […]
[by B.H. Findley] The April rains go on through May, and then continue into June. By the second week of July the smell of mildew has seeped into the carpets, and two inches of water stand in the basement. Puddles spread in the leach field. The garden is all mud and leaves. The tomatoes show […]
[by Bill Vernon] With the fluid plucking of strings, Diane Grey imagined a circle of white-and-black costumed Greek men emerging from the walls and in a shoulder hold dancing, circling around as she, in white athletic socks with cushioned soles, slid in time to the music left and right across the room while dry-mopping the oak […]
[by R.C. Davis] Easels stood, watchful sentinels on the market sidewalk, defined by the surrealistic paintings pinned to their spindly bones. The artist sat motionless, her interest on the cigarette in her fingers. The smoke rolled skyward, no breeze to disrupt the moment. She could have easily been a self-portrait. I turned to walk away. Her […]
[by Ellen Denton] Liana’s bare feet were flat against the wood floor and she was leaning over so that the upper part of her body, her arms, hands, and the side of her face were pressed down flat on top of the piano. She could feel every vibration through her fingertips and torso and faint throbs […]
[by Cynthia June Long] I should have known. I barely had to sweep the floors the entire time we lived in Boston. For two years, the wind blew our planked balcony clean. The plaster-walled apartment was remarkably dust-free. Spiders stayed outdoors. Sometimes it seemed that even the dishes washed themselves. At the time I thought Jim […]
[by Salena Casha] “You can’t come,” my sister said. I was fifteen, she, nineteen, but in the hallway darkness, she looked far older. Perhaps the night had bewitched her and replaced her with someone else, maybe our dead mother. They shared far more qualities than I cared to admit sometimes: the same dazed gaze, the same […]