Fiction refers to literature created from the imagination. Traditionally, that includes novels, short stories, fables, myths, legends, fairy tales, plays, etc. The ever-widening scope of fiction in today's world may include comic books, cartoons, anime, video games, radio and television shows, it could be genre fiction, literary fiction or realism. But regardless of its form of conveyance, fiction is a device that immerses us in experiences that we may not otherwise discover; takes us places we may never go, introduces us to people we may never have met. It can be inspiring, captivating, and even frightening. In the end, it exposes us to a life not our own. It can help us to see ourselves and our world in a new light.
We invite you to join us as we embark on a journey of fiction created by these talented authors. We applaud all of our contributors and encourage everyone to continue to follow their artistic and literary dreams. For those whose works we’ve selected, we hope this is just the beginning of an illustrious career in the arts.
Delivery Service
by E Lysette Gerald-Yamasaki
“Hey! Lady! You forgot your dog!”
I looked over my shoulder. There was such a wealth of “you ditz”—or something worse— in those few words, not to mention a New York gruffness out of place at Peet’s in Aptos, California. Then I realized he was talking to me. I don’t own a dog. I turned and walked slowly back to the table I’d just been at, staring at the cute Benji-looking mutt sitting alertly next to my chair, with a leash dangling from his mouth.
***
“This isn’t my dog,” I said, but the New Yorker had turned back to his table of friends, as if I didn’t exist.
“Don’t worry, it’s just for a little while.”
“What?” I turned full circle. There was no one around except the table with the New Yorker. I looked at the dog, intending to complain, even though I knew he wouldn’t understand, like when I talk to my computer. He was standing now, slowly wagging his tail and looking at me with a gentle smile, as if waiting for me to catch on.
***
I did everything I could to find the dog’s owner. Mutt. He told me at one point his name was Mutt. Who the heck names their dog Mutt?! Anyway, I still had Mutt a few days later when I was grabbing my keys to visit a friend in a retirement home. I considered.
“Do you want to stay here, or come with me to visit Sheila?” Even as...
You’ve Been Chosen
by Melissa Behrend
“You’ve been chosen” the subject line stated. No punctuation, no specification as to what she’d been chosen for. The sender? A large hardware chain. What in the world would she want them to choose her for? she thought. Nothing, that’s what. She marked the email as spam and closed her laptop, never giving the missive another thought.
#
“You’ve been chosen” greeted her once again the next morning, bright and early. She hadn’t had her coffee yet, so she nearly opened the damn thing without even looking, but then she noticed the hardware store’s name and the somewhat creepy headline. Something about the missing punctuation. Shouldn’t they have used an exclamation point if she was chosen for a prize or something? Seems like if you wanted to generate a feeling of excitement, really get someone stoked to open an email, you’d use an exclamation point. Wouldn’t you? Whatever. The point was, she noticed just in time and didn’t open it. Mark as spam. Move on.
#
“Emma you’ve been chosen” made her do a doubletake. Hey, the sender was personalizing things now. They still hadn’t figured out the punctuation. They weren’t just missing an exclamation point, but a comma, too. Where were these emails coming from, where had the sender been educated? Did they miss the day on punctuation? As an English major, it really was starting to tick her off.
Now they had her name. Had they paid a little more to the evildoers on the Dark...
Make-Out Stories
by Miriam Manglani
Hannah shuffled over to Jen’s team, staring at the ground, her white off-brand sneakers kicking up rising clouds of dry dirt. The second to last girl chosen for kickball, right behind Suzanne Henry. She swatted the flies teaming in the ninety-degree heat at Camp Hill Crest before taking a seat on the bench next to her team mates and their hairless swinging legs. The other girls were all doing it, shaving their legs. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t like her, because her legs were hairy. “You can fix that,” Hannah said to herself and smiled as her mom’s favorite phrase came to mind. She dug into her pocket and stroked the red lucky rabbit’s foot her mom gave her.
During her shower time, she “borrowed” Laura’s razor. Shaving couldn’t be that hard. The other week, she watched Heidi shave her legs, and it looked so easy. She didn’t have any shaving cream, so she used soap instead. The hair on her legs helped generate a good lather. She held her breath and moved the razor up her leg. By the time the razor reached the top of her leg, it was fully clogged with hair. That’s when the bleeding started, all down her leg. She must have cut herself, but she just kept going. When she was done, she had several cuts on both her legs that needed Band-Aides. She knew she would get better with practice.
After shower time, the girls lined up to walk to the...
Chandralata
by Nitin Mishra
Since her wedding day, Chandralata has been hearing a great deal about Rudralaxmi. Chandralata was an ordinary girl with average height and limited intelligence. She lacked knowledge about dancing, playing the piano, and chess. Her only womanly ability was cooking, but that was only average. On certain days, the dishes she made were incredibly tasty, but on other days they were bland and uncooked. The only positive aspect about her was being the sole daughter of a wealthy landlord. Her father had a huge mansion and plenty of livestock and servants to take care of him. Every now and then, she quietly yearned to be able to ride a bicycle, at least.
Married over a month now, she was already hearing excessively and exclusively about Rudralaxmi and about her glorious virtues. She possessed the talent to do this and that, including singing a wide range of songs. It seemed like the list of her features would never stop. The situation kept dragging on. Despite being newly married, Chandralata’s name was not being praised and celebrated as expected.
Despite being the queen of her house, she was treated no differently than an ordinary citizen. For every task or any consultation, Rudralaxmi was summoned. She had already heard that she was a master chess player and a refined poet as well. Chandralata had never witnessed it, but it was said that she could compose love poems in a jiffy. It felt as if the entire universe aligned to make it...
Foiled
by Brigitte Whiting
I’m always losing stuff even though I’m careful. Books. Homework. I once lost my dog Mutt. Well, technically that wasn’t my fault. Silly Mutt followed me to school and didn’t want to cross the footbridge because of the creek water rushing under it and the snags rammed up against the pillars. The last I saw of her, she was barking at the junk floating by. I did feel bad though, and when I got home from school that afternoon, I went looking for her, whistling and calling, but she was nowhere to be found.
But I always find the stuff too. That’s how it’s been for as long as I can remember. I lose a book and then there it is, at the bottom of my closet. Or the time I lost my coin purse and it was under my bed. Just odd places like that. Even Mutt turned up the evening after she’d disappeared and whined on the back step. I was so happy to see her and glad to have her sleeping on the foot of my bed again.
Now that I'm ten, my parents said, “Yvonne, you need to learn to be responsible.” They’ve given me an ultimatum. The next time I lose something, I pay for it. Ten cents for the first infraction. Twenty-five cents for the second one, and my whole year’s allowance after that. I had to pay thirty-five cents last week and since I'm only getting twenty-five cents a week, ...
Walter’s Last Model
by Willy J
It was 3:25 when Walter walked into Bongart's Cleaners on Eighth Street. He approached the counter and dinged the silver bell. By the time he got the claim ticket from his wallet, Sally came out from the back room through the curtained doorway.
Though Sally was middle aged and a bit plump, she still held the pretty face of her younger years. She walked to the hall tree at the end of the counter and hung up Walters freshly laundered white shirt and three-piece suit. The suit and shirt had a paper covering with Bongart's name and logo on it. Sally lived in Johnstown all her life and had not seen Walter since they graduated from high school; that is until her first day working here at Bongart's ten years ago when he brought his suit in for cleaning. Since then, she came to learn that a suit cleaning for Walter always meant something was up.
She greeted Walter in her usual playful voice and said, "There must be a special occasion . . . Walter you're not getting married, are you? And if you're not, I'm still available," she teased.
Walter blushed and said, "Yes and no."
"Yes on the special occasion or on getting married?"
"No, I'm not getting married. But I am going to Duluth to get my latest ship model."
"Another one, my goodness, how many will this make now?" Sally asked.
"Sixty, and my last."
"You're not dying are you? Oh, please tell...
Read more: Walter’s Last Model
Tachinomiya
by Julie Bissell
We were exhausted by Tokyo. Exhausted from the excitement of having finally arrived, from steering through the crowds and having our ears rattled by the strident chatter all around us, jetlagged, sand-bagged by the sauna heat of the city’s streets. Exhausted above all by the people of Tokyo. Whether we asked for directions or tickets or help, their reaction often seemed to be surprise with a hint of having been subtly yet deeply offended. Neither of us could understand the Japanese and they seemed unable to understand us.
Ben went out for food on the third day and came back with a solution to our problem.
“I’ve hired a guide,” he said. He collapsed onto the bed and handed me a neat little bamboo box and a fork. “Bento, from that stall just down the street. You like noodles, right?”
“Thanks,” I said. I heaved myself upright and opened the box. They looked more like worms, but I didn’t fancy squeezing into the hotel’s tiny lift and going down to the street to find anything else. “What kind of guide?”
“A good-looking one,” Ben said, grinning. He opened his own bento box and dug in to the vegetables.
“He or she?”
“She,” Ben said, his words muffled by a mouthful of carrot. “Sakura. And she might be able to get us in to watch the Sungoliath match tomorrow! How’d you fancy that?”
“I thought there weren’t any tickets left for sale?”
“Well, don’t ask, don’t get,” Ben replied. ...
We Can Be Friends
by Brigitte Whiting
“Hey, fatso,” someone shouts, awakening Petticoat, the hippopotamus, from her snooze. She shakes her great head and bares her teeth and tusks. “I wouldn’t do that,” she says. “I'm unpredictable, you know, when I'm frightened.” She squints her tiny eyes looking for the culprit.
“Here, here!” A small black and white creature jumps up and down, higher each time.
She frowns. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s dangerous in the hippo pen?”
He backs away from her, tail between his hind legs, and when he’s far enough away, he stands to his full size and glares at her. “I'm not afraid of nothing.”
She swishes her great tail and turns away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? What’s that mean?”
Now she can’t see him. “Don’t come too close. I may step on you.” She peers down at her great feet. Somewhere in her brain, she strains for a memory. It couldn’t be, could it, that this creature could be a friend. She’s been alone in this enclosure so long she’s nearly forgotten the etiquette her mother taught her. “I don’t remember seeing anything like you,” she finally says. “What are you?”
“A dog, silly.”
A dog. She’s never heard of a dog before. Zookeepers, yes. Veterinarians poking and prodding her, tickling her cheeks so she’d open her mouth and they could check inside. “I can’t eat you so what are you good for?”
“Sheesh! Don’t knock your brains out.”
This dog, whatever that means, is nothing more...
To Humor a Lunatic
by Nitin Mishra
The lunatic was not a lunatic previously in his youthful days. He used to be a young, handsome student with a very genial nature and an ever-charming smile always hung on his oval plump face. His eyebrows were so perfectly aligned over his twin eyes that sometimes his friends complained that he always did something to his eyebrows every time he left his home.
They said, “He has some sort of fascination for his eyebrows man… get it…?”
But he always denied it. “Nay, I swear to God I don’t touch my eyebrows on purpose as to speak…they were just born like that, you see.”
“Nope, nope and nope…we don’t believe that crap…” they always remarked. With full conviction, they always shattered him,
“You do something to them with all definitiveness… y’ do something to them….”
The young man kept denying all these accusations. But he was helpless and felt appalled and dismayed. Often he locked himself into his solitary bathroom with an old hanging mirror. He kept staring and staring into those eyebrows of his with the fullest of his concentration. When he was locked inside that bathroom, he could not stop staring at them. He knew those eyebrows were accountable for all those ugly jokes all his friends constantly threw at him. It was such a trivial matter he could not even tell his parents or his principal at school. He felt tortured all the time, even when he was alone.
...
Autumn Winds
by Patrick Curran
My eyes closed, moments from sleep, I hear a voice. I hold my breath for a moment, my heart racing in protest.
“Bill, is that you?”
Other noises follow. I’m as still as the bed beneath me.
At last I realise it’s from the TV downstairs. I feel pinned to the bed. The thought of getting up beyond me, sleep inches away.
Oh Bill. Why did you have to leave? I forget sometimes you know.
My sleep is broken through the night. Fragments of images and faces from my dreams fade quickly becoming lost in a clump of dust, dull and knotted inside. The thoughts jagged and confused. I return to sleep. The fragments I search for in my dreams make more sense. Sometimes I clamber up into waking thoughts only to slip and slide back into confusion. When awake my first thoughts are a struggle to remember how I got here or where I’m to go.
I stop to catch my breath. The people brush past me.
Let them hurry.
I forgot to bring change for the trolley. I walk slowly willing my fingers not to uncurl their grip, dreading the bag falling to the shop floor.
I arrive at the checkout. Lines of queues in front of me, which one to join? I choose the line I think will move quickest. There’s a little boy tugging at the empty trolleys.
“Hi, “he says looking up at me. His parents are busy unpacking onto...
Resolve
by Brigitte Whiting
One spring afternoon, you watched the neighbor kids playing with a spotted puppy. They had company so maybe it was theirs. If they brought the dog into your yard, you’d shoo them off.
You certainly didn’t want to raise a puppy. Or a dog to run your life. To break your heart.
The visitors left. The kids disappeared into their house. The dog waited outside their garage door.
Who leaves a dog outdoors?
That evening, you heard it whining, scratching at your front door. One night. What could possibly go wrong?
You let her in, all sopping tongue, wagging tail.
Bio: Brigitte Whiting has published in Village Square and Literary Yard online journals. She lives in Maine. She has completed the Nonfiction and 3-Year Fiction MFAs at WVU, enjoys facilitating a variety of courses at WVU, and is a member of several writers’ groups.
Safe
by Brian Hunt
Everyone wore a mask now, but why they did was no longer a question. Those who asked either disappeared or, after a suitable period of re-education, joined their faceless colleagues. The masks kept us free not just from airborne threats to health but from the complexities of signalling and receiving emotion. A rational and productive society could not risk being derailed by wasteful and confusing emotions!
Everyone knew that a smile or frown was too easily misinterpreted and could cause emotional conflict. 'Is that person attracted to me or not?' or 'Should I be here or not?' or 'Have I done something wrong?' Such difficult questions could bring painful answers and did not have a place within a harmonious society. It was so much better to be safe.
A masked and safe society, free from messy emotional confusions made life so much simpler. There was no need to smile at anyone, and the mask hid any disapproving looks that might be made in an emotionally unguarded moment. We had been taught to ‘Guard your emotions lest they betray you'. And people were reassured by the grey mask on faces as they could not show hostility and thus all was harmony.
The government had issued everyone grey masks. Each contained an electronic chip that was monitored via a nationwide network. If a mask were removed for more than the ten minutes allowed for meals or bathing, the authorities were automatically notified to take appropriate action. The chip held...
Eagles’ Run
by Sandra Niedzialek
Sarah Jensen works at the county morgue. It’s the only job available, her probation officer tells her. She’s a lousy thief, it seems. Gah, she hates scrubbing stainless steel. She’s the only one in the morgue because her shift is from 4 p.m. to 11 p.m. As she sprays more disinfectant on the table, she thinks of the man that arrived as a DOA this morning. The gossip queens think he was in an adulterous affair, and the husband shot him. She’s curious about what he looks like. She turns towards the rows of drawers and knows precisely which one he is laid to rest in. Should she dare look? Sarah is known for lacking impulse control, so naturally she goes right for the drawers. She listens for anyone approaching, but it’s eerily quiet. She opens the drawer, and peeks under the sheet to see his face. He’s handsome with dark hair, a slight shadow of a beard, and she bets he probably has beautiful eyes too. He looks like he is sleeping instead of dead. She tells herself, "I will never find a man like him. I’m woefully plain and skinny." A man like him dates exclusively gorgeous women. Sarah stares at the man, wishing he was still alive, when she feels someone behind her. She jumps like she has 50,000 volts of electricity going through her.
“Sarah, what are you doing?” he yells too loudly. She’s sure her face must be on fire. Mr. Pellan, her...
How Horrible the Moon
by Brian Hunt
How horrible the moon. How horrible the pale light it cast upon my grave as it called me to my duty.
In a few short hours I would leave the comfort of my grave to walk among the living. I scared most of them, but now after over 100 years, this routine had ceased to be amusing and was now just a chore. ‘There must be more to death than this,’ I thought, and frankly, I was tired of scaring people. I just wanted to be a friend, I wanted my existence in death to be a redemption from being grumpy old Mr. Clarkson, the grocer, the man who never returned children’s footballs and who hid from carol singers. I wanted to be a jolly happy, although departed, soul who made the living world a happier place.
It’s difficult being a ghost, you know. As a soul in limbo there’s no one who represents you and helps you. Those in heaven have God and his offices, even if they did move in mysterious ways, while those in hell these days were generally too busy being roasted or watching endless repeats of Mary Poppins. Satan had a warped sense of humour and sometimes changed the meaning of hell when he and his demons wanted new amusements.
But, help or none, I was determined to change. Tonight was going to be the first night of the rest of my death. I climbed out of my grave, rearranged a couple of...
Read more: How Horrible the Moon
The Woman in the Mirror
by Miriam Manglani
Jack pulled the comforter over his head and clamped his hands over his ears, but it did
little to block out his parents’ screaming. If it got any worse, he would hide in his closet.
“I told you I wanted shrimp for dinner,” Amit, Jack’s father, scowled and leaned his fat
belly against the back of the kitchen chair while he swung his almost empty beer bottle in his
right hand.
“Yes, but they...they didn’t have any at the supermarket.”
“Are you kidding me, Lucy? They never run out of shrimp. I almost gagged eating the
slop you made for me tonight. It was absolutely disgusting.” Amit’s spat on the plate.
“You love fried chicken. You raved about it last time I cooked it. Was it overdone this
time?” Lucy said in a small voice digging her long nails into the palms of her hands.
“It just tasted like ass.”
“Well, I’ll use a different recipe next time. Let me go check on Jack.”
“Hey! I’m not done talking to you! Do you know what it’s like to come home from a hard
day at work...to...to...to chicken sitting in a puddle of oil?”
“No, Amit. But I do know what it’s like to work all day and take care of an eight-year-
old.”
“Now I know what you’re getting at you little witch. You think I do nothing for our son.
You know that’s not true. I take him to all his baseball games and play catch with...
Read more: The Woman in the Mirror
To the Moon
by Brigitte Whiting
"How terrible the moon," Mr. Abrams said each time there was a full moon. "There's sadness with beauty."
At first, when the future Mrs. Abrams met him, she thought it was odd. When he was young, he'd wanted to ride on the back of his older brother's motorcycle on a moonlit night, but his parents forbade it. His brother crashed later that night and died.
She loved everything about the moon, particularly when it was full and casting its long shadows through the pines.
Their first child, their only daughter, was born on the night of a full moon. She was sunshine and light in their lives. Their twin boys arrived on a stormy rainy night, foreshadowing how fearless and adventuresome they became.
Each month or so, even when their children were small, the Abrams toasted the full moon. During the winter, they stood together peering through the picture window facing the eastern sky, each holding a cup of hot tea. "To how terrible the moon," he said, "and how wonderful," and they laughed and clicked their cups together, the pottery sending out a faint ring.
Warm weather evenings were different. They brought goblets filled with diet sodas out to their deck and leaned on the railing, gazing up to the sky, and toasting the moon. Afterwards, they sat in their lounge chairs watching the stars above them. Mrs. Abrams listened to the soft murmurs of insects still busy in the trees and wildflowers. She was sure she...
Eight Ball
by Maggie Mevel
Morgan smiled at the barista taking her cappuccino order. The coffee a small indulgence to celebrate a fantastic day. Two job offers. The gods were smiling on her, finally. She set her purse on the counter, and a rack of keychains beside the cash register tinkled at the movement. The glossy black of the eight-ball keychain caught her eye. She recalled a bratty cousin at a family reunion, sticking a full-sized one in her face telling her to ask it questions. He’d chased her around until she’d relented, then laughed and teased her for the rest of the afternoon.
She ran a finger over the smooth surface, and goosebumps spilled up her arm.
“That will be $4.50 for the coffee.” The barista interrupted her thoughts.
Morgan grabbed the eight ball. “Let’s add that.”
She wandered down the street, sipping the creamy treat and spinning the eight ball on her finger, pondering the pros and cons of her job options. A car horn honked, and she glanced up to see the front of the local lottery shop.
“I wonder.” She grinned and shook the eight ball.
Yes.
Morgan scoffed but crossed the street, entered the shop and purchased a $2 instant win ticket. She used her thumbnail to scratch off the card, tiny curls of dark grey falling on the countertop. $50 winner.
She laughed at the coincidence, retrieved her surprise winnings, and resumed her walk home, twirling the keychain with job selection on her mind.
The VP of...
One Precious Day
by Paul K. McWilliams
“We love those who know the worst of us and don’t turn their faces away.”
-Walker Percy
Mike Hanlon, an old childhood friend of mine, had cultivated the pot, not for kicks or profit, but expressly for relief. He was a poor and suffering soul growing a simple weed, an illegal weed that, when smoked, mercifully spared him the fantastic headaches and the terror of epileptic seizures. Light leaking around the clock from the two cloaked windows of the spare bedroom of his rented home is what likely brought the cops. The bust ushered a cascade of compounding misfortune upon Mike, leaving him broke, homeless, and alone.
Michael and I first became friends when we were eight years old. Our families had summer shacks at Minot Beach, then a minor but no less beautiful summer retreat and resort about twenty miles southeast of Boston. Michael was one of six children, third from the oldest. He had three brothers, one older and two younger, and two sisters, one older and one younger. I remember Michael then as always smiling and laughing, all boy with a real talent for harmless mischief. He was smart, witty, and a genuine joy to be around. I can still see him swimming like an otter, playful and at ease at any depth. I’d watch and marvel at his swimming prowess. It took till I was nearly a teen before I’d swim in water over my head.
By the latter part of...
Thanksgiving Thought
by Dub Wright
Oily rags covered her toes and loose leather straps ran around her heels. A hint of blood seemed to darken each step she took through the falling Thanksgiving snow.
“Hav ye ah pence, kind sir?”
A single coin flew through the cold air, and a rag-covered hand suddenly fetched it from the mist. Not far from where she stood a streetlight was illumined by the flame of a streetlamp lighter.
“Beg yer pardon, mum,” a tiny voice cried beneath her. “Hav ye a penny for me sister and me soup this day?”
Hilda found the single penny in the bottom of her ragged bag. “Here, lad,” she said, “Feed ye sister.”
BIO: Dub Wright is a North Carolina novelist and short story writer. He has authored over fifty works of fiction and has contributed to regional journals and publications. He is a graduate of William Jewell College and Southern Polytechnic University. Dub previously worked in the communications industry. You can find him on Amazon.
Read more: Thanksgiving Thought
Dashing Past
by Paul K. McWilliams
He recalls an old mill pond. He sees with ease the boy he was, a child smoking while watching the small red and white bobber he has cast out to the edge of the lily pads, hoping mostly for a bass or a pickerel while expecting a perch, or more likely still, a sunfish.
The pond, a favored place to fish as well as play hockey in winter, remains vivid to the man, grown from the boy. The boy absorbed and retained the details of the place, while now, the reflecting man wonders and yearns: had life been still enough, had there been more time, had there been room for more than one damn thing after another? Had there been time, then perhaps stories would have been told to the boy about the old mill pond and so much more.
The man sees it all again, the pond as well as the hell-bent rush of life. He sees anew the granite boulders, big as cars that shoulder up, hump-like, here and there around the old mill pond. He sees a wall of cut granite that fronts the coming water, high enough to have once powered a grist mill upstream and a sawmill downstream. On the upper east bank of the pond he can still see, in his mind’s eye, a large home and an even larger barn. They are both so utterly well crafted, so absolutely beautiful, they lasted long after the milling, long after the lumbering, ...
A Day to Remember
by Brigitte Whiting
Annie had dreamed of her wedding day since she was six years old and received a bride doll. She'd even planned and revised how the day would unfold a hundred times. Her mother had read the notes and lamented how she didn't remember her own wedding. Annie vowed she'd never repeat that mistake. Then, when her mother died while she was a teenager, she became even more detailed with her plans. The day needed to be perfect.
She stood now, dressed in the white lacy gown she'd designed and sewn herself, and waiting with her father behind the closed doors to enter the church, afraid she'd forgotten something.
"You've got five minutes," Dad whispered. "In case you change your mind."
She shook her head. She'd never do that. She pictured walking down the aisle, all eyes on her, and tripping because she was so clumsy. "One second." She released his arm, and dashed back to the dressing room, slipped out of her tight pink silk sandals, and pulled on scuffed running shoes. No one would see them.
"Ready?" Dad asked.
"One second." She opened a door just a pinch. Sigurd, her groom-to-be, the most surprising man she'd ever met, stood holding the reins of a great white steed, a silver and gold coat of arms embroidered on the black blanket draped over its back. No, no, no, he couldn't have taken her literally when she'd mentioned wanting to leave her wedding in a glistening coach that would carry...
Coulda
by Paul K. McWilliams
Jim Keohane drops his razor into the basin of hot soapy water as his body slumps suddenly with the news coming over the radio. Bobby Kennedy was fatally shot at the Ambassador Hotel just after midnight in Los Angeles, just after 3 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Alone, no one hears as Jim begins with a moan and ends with a howl, “Jesus Christ, not again.” It’s the first week of June and it promises to be better than 90 degrees in Boston today. It’ll be a little cooler amid the summer shacks of Minot Beach where Jim is living alone, separate from his wife and seven daughters.
Jim Keohane raises his head back atop his shoulders, arms braced straight, hands gripping the small, suspended basin, and in the mirror he can see old man Slater, rod in hand, off to fish the coming tide. That quick, Jim towels the shaving soap from his face and calls from the window, “Ray, have you heard?”
Old man Slater gives a silent slouch and a nod. He’s heard. “Jimmy, I got grub enough for two. Let’s hike on up to the hunting grounds. Bound to be returning Stripers.”
“Give me two secs, Ray, I’ll be right with you.” Jim jumps into his stained fishing pants, a plain white tee shirt, and slips on his old top-sider sneakers. All motion, he grabs two beers from the fridge, his smokes from the table, then snatches up his ever-ready fishing gear, heads out...
SkippyGraycoat
by Peter Mancusi
Skippy Graycoat woke up early to the chirping of birds. It had been a long night for the young squirrel. He spent hours fixing up his new apartment, a fancy little hollow inside of an old, maple tree, and he was happy to finally have some privacy. No more annoying parents to lecture him about survival in the forest. He stretched out his arms and legs, then peeked his head outside for a breath of fresh, autumn air.
“Well, time for breakfast,” he mumbled to himself. He noticed all the other residents of the Maple Grove Complex gathering acorns and getting ready for winter. “Bunch of fools,” he went on, “working so hard when they don’t have to.” He chuckled then ran towards the bottom of the tree. When he reached the ground, he headed straight to his secret food spot: a large, white house at the edge of the forest.
You see, even though Skippy’s parents warned him not to rely on humans for food, he always ignored them. When they showed him and his siblings how to gather and store acorns, he never paid attention. In his mind, he’d always have his secret food spot to count on, but on that particular morning, he was in for a rude awakening…
“What the heck!” he shouted when he climbed the fence and noticed all the bird feeders in the backyard of the house were gone. Even the bowls...
A Pot Full of Beans
by Brigitte Whiting
Clara Beth didn't remember that she'd promised to fill the cast iron bean pot for the Smithville Annual Bean Hole Bean Pot supper until late Friday afternoon when she received the call that the bean hole was prepared, the embers hot and ready. "Almost ready," she lied. What else could she do. Losing face would have the townspeople ribbing her about her memory for as long as she lived.
She'd do what she'd done last year and the year before.
"Stanley," she called into the house. No answer. He was probably in his workshop. She walked down the stairs to the garage. "Stanley."
"What's the hurry?" He'd stepped out of the shop so quickly he still held a Philips screwdriver in his gloved hands.
"Run to the store and buy canned pork and beans."
"Again?"
"Next year, I promise."
One thing about Stanley, he was a good sport, and in ten minutes, he'd gotten his wallet, put on his old camouflage jacket and hat, and backed their Jeep Waggoner out the garage and down the driveway.
She stood watching him go and he was down the street and around the block before she thought to tell him how many cans, and more importantly, what brands to get. Well, all she could do was get started with peeling and slicing onions, and dicing and frying bacon.
She fielded three phone calls from the fire pit crew asking her how much longer, found the cast iron pot tucked on a...
Read more: A Pot Full of Beans
Makers and Takers
by Kim Bundy
Jake dropped the baby off at daycare early that morning and replaced three water heaters by lunch. There were two HVAC systems left to service, so he wolfed down a sandwich as he drove between jobs. When he got back to the shop that afternoon, his boss called him into his office.
“Take a seat. “ The fluorescent ceiling lights made everything in the room a weird shade of green. Mr. Huffman closed the door and dropped into a rolling black leather chair behind his desk that had nothing on it except a paper calendar. He bent over the calendar, fiddled with the chewed tip of a ballpoint pen, and cleared his throat.
“Jake, we’re going have to let you go. I hate this, because you do good work, but when the paper mill shut down, we lost lots of business.”
Jake’s face burned, so he looked down at the empty lunch pail still in his hands. His fingernails were caked with black dirt he had scraped off one of the HVAC units that afternoon. A clock on the paneled wall ticked loudly.
“Mr. Huffman, I really need this job.” He glanced up at his boss, who was looking at the pen. This was shameful stuff, a man losing a job, and they both knew it.
“I know. But you’ll find something, you’ll do the right thing for Ashley and the baby.”
His throat thick, Jake walked out of the office...
The Piano
by Nitin Mishra
The old grand piano sat in lonely corner of the room. Dust covered the piano body, and insects crept in through the keys. For the house’s inhabitants, the grand piano was merely a dead wooden sound-making device mechanically operated. No one ever tried to infuse life into the piano by at least hitting keys intentionally. It stood at that same corner for years and years, just like an item of broken old furniture, completely discarded and forgotten.
Many times, the owners tried getting rid of the piano. They even established contact with the local piano storekeepers, asking them to purchase the piano at a price the piano store could never find a customer to pay. But they still insisted on selling the piano, claiming it was the most elegant piano in the entire world with a superb tone, texture, and quality. The owners contacted many such piano movers and piano stores who might buy the piano at the price they asked for. But unfortunately, no one accepted the offer.
“Those cheap bastards…,” was the simple comment of the piano owners.
A middle-aged man of around forty-four worked as a butler to the couples who owned the house. Although he was hired as a butler, later his duties expanded far and wide-ranging to include a gardener, janitor, and even massage guy. He needed money so he could never resist whatever the couple demanded. His name was Frank, and he had a son. His wife, whom he’s adored much, was...
