issue 33 > fiction
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Friends
by Cezarija AbartisAndrea is invited to Caroline’s house for a slumber party, and Paula will be coming too. Their hostess, Caroline, is the new girl in seventh grade; she just moved here. Andrea thinks Caroline is pretty and smart and she has naturally curly hair, while Andrea’s droops around her face. The three of them can watch a show on the new Motorola, drink Pepsi-Cola, paint their toenails red, and talk about boys. Their mothers allow them because they get good grades.
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Islands of Salt
by Avital Gad-CykmanDana’s sweaty hand quivered when her mother, Adel, let go of it. The girl squinted at the store owner’s yellowed eyes and wiry mustache and thought he had been named Wolf for a reason. Sometimes when he growled, even his wife, Fania, lowered her head and avoided his eyes.
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Difficult People
by Lou GagliaAll I said was, “You want me to hold this?” and she went nuts, almost losing her balance from the top step of the ladder before bending down to grab onto it and make her way down.
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Soot
by Soren GaugerEvening drew near - though in the winter one never knows for sure - and the snowdrifts grew shadowier, the crows thickened, moving hither and thither with their sinister little hops, the trees grew less and less distinct. The only marks visible in the snow were some slender bicycle tracks down a trail leading through this deserted park. We followed them, hands in our pockets because it was cold, branches snapping and crunching underfoot. The tracks swayed and wobbled, and in our minds’ eyes we saw the rickety black bicycle with its punctured tire skittering about, the spindly old-man’s legs stuck out akimbo, the metal cage jostling about over the back tire, crows flapping their wings as they got out of the way.
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Delays
by Mark HummelMy girlfriend, Nadine, had insisted we stop at the dealership, convinced she heard a strange noise emanating from the passenger front tire. “Who on earth stops at a dealership for tire repair?” I asked. I received no response. They had found nothing wrong. “It’s a haunted tire,” I teased.
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There There There
by Christopher JamesThere’s a small boy on the floor next to the rocket launcher section, his arms and legs working like steam pistons, screaming fit to bust a lung because his daddy won’t let him play with the big guns. His face has gone pink and he’s squeezed out two snail trails of tears on his cheeks, and for some reason he’s trying to take his pants off.
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Flying
by Elnathan JohnI fly when I sleep. Not the tatata wing flapping of pigeons and doves. More like the stationary gliding of a plane. My hands are my wings- I run, leap forward chest out, and will myself to fly. The engine that propels me is my mind, so if when my eyes are closed anything bothers or distracts me, I glide for a while, then start to descend sharply and crash. This happens at least one out of every five times. When it does I wake up sad and with a headache. But when I am happy, I soar so high I start to feel breathless.
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Sleep
by Kevin SpaideWhen I closed my eyes in the dark, I saw terrible things. I saw the future.
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Learning Outcomes for the End of the World
by Elizabeth Kate Switaj“It’s the ultimate teachable moment,” said Malcolm as a comet, curled at the end like a ram’s horn, streaked through the corner of red sky visible through the broken glass of the skylight. “And as a liberatory pedagogue…”
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Inititiation (A Condensation of Processes)
by Carl-John X VerajaThe transition was very sudden and swift and seemingly irreversible. One day, I was quite comfortable in the path of my life. Wafting through high school, putting up with the insanity and abuse of my parents. Then, suddenly, it all became disagreeable and I sought any means by which to change it all.
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Foreverfall
by Steven VolynetsForget Brian, I thought and I stepped onto the scaffold. Buckets ready, cables hoisted, mi novia nestled high in the clouds. Hoy es mi dia. Fuck his blue eyes and his balding head, his ex-wife and their stupid kid, and his stories about how the Irishmen were the first ones up on the highest perch. Chrysler, Rock, Empire State. Irishmen this, Irishmen that. Carajo. Those old-school window ledges are wide enough to have a picnic. So don't believe the hype. All those gabachos were nothing but pigeons. Stick your ass out the window, strap yourself to the frame, squeak-squack and dip right back inside to safety. No. It's not a real climb if you take the elevator. Besides, if those Irishmen with their suspenders and pork pie hats saw a Costas—forty five floors, all windows and glass and not one ledge to give a foothold—they'd stay down in the coal mines or subway tunnels, or whatever other shit jobs they did back in their day.
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Afterlife
by Aida ZilelianMy knees stung from the sharpness of the cold wind as we waited for the car. I helped my mother into the front seat and sat in the back of the car with Effie sitting stiffly next to me. Margo was driving. No one spoke as Margo drove down the block and towards the highway.
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