issue 35 > fiction
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Windfalls
by Lesley Nneka ArimahThe first time you fell, you were six. Before then you were too young to fall and had to be dropped, pushed, made to slip for the sake of authenticity. You learned to fall out of self-preservation as your mother pushed too hard, dropped from too high a height and you wouldn’t have to fake the tears or the wails. You had been living off these falls for years, sometimes hers, but mostly yours as a sobbing child garnered more sympathy than a pretty, but aging, mother of one.
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Mom and Me
by John CarrollMom asked me to write a story about her at one of our lunches, a story I’ll attempt to write here. She asked in March of last year, about four months before she passed. She surely wanted it to be a piece of loosely inspired fiction, but I can’t write about her without writing the truth. And the truth is, I’ve found success since she died. She was my trusted editor, my best critic, and yet I had nothing published in our final years together. Only now is my name known again, and I struggle to admit the truths apparent in such change.
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Something of Value
by Arthur DavisI was staring absently at the stained calendar supplied by Denninger's Leather Polish when a high-pitched metallic wail followed by the agonizing rasp of metal tearing against metal broke the morning silence. I had been working under the Third Avenue elevated train in Manhattan long enough to recognize the sound of tragedy.
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Unfunny
by Stephen DelaneyThe joke falls flat. In fact, it bombs. In fact, not only does Staci not find it funny, but he can tell by her expression, by that unmoored look once her head dips and freezes, her gaze latched on his, eyes deepening in little stutters of rethinking, reevaluating, she’s stunned. All the while his face going ugly: blood rushing in, resurfacing some ingrained little-boy shame. But as quickly as it starts he’s tamped it with an ancient survival tactic: a spacey mind-pocket, a focus-spot boring him a tunnel into nothing.
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Free Ride
by Elise GlassmanMom was trying to pour Prosecco into the flutes that Vitti had shoplifted, but his hand kept shaking. He set the bottle down, frustrated. “Damn it. I keep spilling.”
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Scratching the Silver
by Jen KnoxI was supposed to die before anyone had a chance to tell me about my daughter. It made more sense to let everyone think I was gone for good and renew my contract work on the North Shore, to go on saving money and building balconies beneath that angry but addictive sun. I should’ve been content to daydream and pop painkillers to keep up with the younger guys, inhale that fresh, salty air near calm green waters.
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The Draft
by Nicole McCourtJenna cocks her head at the flat screen and laughs before saying with mild surprise, “That was my high school boyfriend.”
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Mr. Shaw
by Cynthia MitchellI can’t say it was because my mother was having a love affair that I flirted on the dance floor, kissing Mr. Shaw, who was handsome and more than twice my age. It may have been heat. I remember descending the metal steps from the plane into the thick island air. Palm trees lined the runway, their flat leaves glistening in the strong sun. At the water’s edge, people appeared as otherworldly figures slowly moving through shimmering waves of light. Yet, surely as I was dazed by the heat, a secret or perhaps a betrayal played a part.
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Things We Do To Keep From Dying
by Dominica PhetteplaceSelf-defense class was supposed to make Janet feel better, but instead it made her feel culpable, an accomplice to her own assault. She left early, holding back her tears until she was safely in the car where no one could see her cry.
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Denial
by Glen PourciauTime had passed and we thought it was safe to chance a quiet dinner at our favorite neighborhood restaurant, an Italian place where we could bring our own bottle. In the past weeks Dawn had ventured out for provisions several times while I stayed at home, distracting myself with books, Sudoku, and television reruns. The waiter knew us well and had always greeted us heartily, but this time he gave Dawn only a grudging smile and barely looked my way.
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