LITERARY FICTION
APRIL 2019
LOVE IS A WARM GUN
MILEVA ANASTASIADOU
~
His name was Joey and he was my joy for a while, until he wasn’t. We had fun, the way young lovers do, when the world unfolds in all its terrifying, yet mesmerizing glory. He had been my weapon against reality, my revenge against sorrow, until he started talking about love. He was my joy and now he’s but a song by Concrete Blonde I listen to on the repeat, among other songs that remind me of him. For songs can be a substitute, a soothing one nonetheless. I kind of feel lucky to have met the original rhythm. Lucky to have a heartbeat to miss.
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LOVE IS A WARM GUN
MILEVA ANASTASIADOU
~
His name was Joey and he was my joy for a while, until he wasn’t. We had fun, the way young lovers do, when the world unfolds in all its terrifying, yet mesmerizing glory. He had been my weapon against reality, my revenge against sorrow, until he started talking about love. He was my joy and now he’s but a song by Concrete Blonde I listen to on the repeat, among other songs that remind me of him. For songs can be a substitute, a soothing one nonetheless. I kind of feel lucky to have met the original rhythm. Lucky to have a heartbeat to miss.
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MARCH 2019
WINGS
LOIS MELINA
~
By then she knew that when she was scared she invented stories: The red maple in the front yard would fall when the wind came from the north. The red-tailed hawk roosting in the fir tree would snatch the cat. The acetone-soaked rags would ignite, and the easel and the canvasses and the brushes would flame red ...
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WINGS
LOIS MELINA
~
By then she knew that when she was scared she invented stories: The red maple in the front yard would fall when the wind came from the north. The red-tailed hawk roosting in the fir tree would snatch the cat. The acetone-soaked rags would ignite, and the easel and the canvasses and the brushes would flame red ...
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FEBRUARY 2019
THE JOURNEY SOUTH OF SNOW
DAVID S. OSGOOD
~
Martin danced around an exhausted bonfire. Gatherers were passed out in the meadow or finishing cigarettes before tasting filter. The craft keg was long gone, now used as a stool to hang ribbons from a slouching tree. Maceo Parker’s singular saxophone licks ended abruptly as the portable pill speaker ran out of batteries. Martin bounced at an angle on one foot until he lost balance and collapsed ceremoniously in the dirt. The fire turned to embers; the only glow left in the meadow came from a string of lights attached to the bus with no wheels.
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THE JOURNEY SOUTH OF SNOW
DAVID S. OSGOOD
~
Martin danced around an exhausted bonfire. Gatherers were passed out in the meadow or finishing cigarettes before tasting filter. The craft keg was long gone, now used as a stool to hang ribbons from a slouching tree. Maceo Parker’s singular saxophone licks ended abruptly as the portable pill speaker ran out of batteries. Martin bounced at an angle on one foot until he lost balance and collapsed ceremoniously in the dirt. The fire turned to embers; the only glow left in the meadow came from a string of lights attached to the bus with no wheels.
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JANUARY 2019
RITUALS
HANNAH MCSORLEY
~
Two girls take to the dunes, sit amongst the grasses and the wind, as the sky grows dark with storm. The elder of the two, Elena, pulls her brother’s knife from her pocket.
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RITUALS
HANNAH MCSORLEY
~
Two girls take to the dunes, sit amongst the grasses and the wind, as the sky grows dark with storm. The elder of the two, Elena, pulls her brother’s knife from her pocket.
Continue reading.
DECEMBER 2018
THE CASHIER
S.F. WRIGHT
~
Vanessa Stone was in her mid-thirties, but unless you looked really closely, she could’ve passed, Drew thought, for twenty-eight; her milky-white skin was smooth and unblemished, her figure petite and fit. Also, she always smelled of nice perfume and smiled at Drew in a way that made his heart flutter.
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THE CASHIER
S.F. WRIGHT
~
Vanessa Stone was in her mid-thirties, but unless you looked really closely, she could’ve passed, Drew thought, for twenty-eight; her milky-white skin was smooth and unblemished, her figure petite and fit. Also, she always smelled of nice perfume and smiled at Drew in a way that made his heart flutter.
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NOVEMBER 2018
ÇEŞME, JULY 2002
EZGI ÜSTÜNDAĞ
~
Pervin opened her eyes when her daughter’s toes dug into her calf. Still asleep, Özge fidgeted until the hot Mediterranean air trapped between the linens and her bare legs dissipated somewhere above the bed. The tangled mass of sheets slid down the mattress’s right side. Pervin stopped herself from leaving the bed to address the small crisis; they were in the final hours of the night, and she deserved to rest a bit longer.
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ÇEŞME, JULY 2002
EZGI ÜSTÜNDAĞ
~
Pervin opened her eyes when her daughter’s toes dug into her calf. Still asleep, Özge fidgeted until the hot Mediterranean air trapped between the linens and her bare legs dissipated somewhere above the bed. The tangled mass of sheets slid down the mattress’s right side. Pervin stopped herself from leaving the bed to address the small crisis; they were in the final hours of the night, and she deserved to rest a bit longer.
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OCTOBER 2018
ICE PLUNGE
MAYA SOKOLOVSKI
~
It’s cold. I couldn’t possibly be here, but there we are: by Lake Wilcox, in Sensei’s backyard. It’s dusk and December in Aurora, Canada. The sun is a crimson smear in the west. It’s minus-19 Celsius but a breeze makes it feel like minus-25. Sensei, my fellow judoka, and I run onto the ice. We’re in swimsuits and boots. Their winter coats and my fur parka hang on a coat rack, which Sensei’s wife had set out earlier on the snow-covered lawn for our convenience.
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SEPTEMBER 2018
HER FAVORITE PART OF WINTER
KEVIN WHITE
~
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
He does not get the reference. He smiles anyway. She sips hot chocolate. He sips at wine. A stray branch taps on the glass, wants to come inside, but is not allowed. He puts another log onto the fire. She loves quoting Joyce, but knows he won't get it, so she has to stop for now.
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HER FAVORITE PART OF WINTER
KEVIN WHITE
~
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
He does not get the reference. He smiles anyway. She sips hot chocolate. He sips at wine. A stray branch taps on the glass, wants to come inside, but is not allowed. He puts another log onto the fire. She loves quoting Joyce, but knows he won't get it, so she has to stop for now.
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AUGUST 2018
RECYCLED HEART
ANNE MCMILLAN
~
The fishing boat is bleached from the sun, battered from the sea. I rub my calloused fingers along the rim where the green paint is flaking. The broken cabin door, unlatched, swings on its hinges. The floorboards are warped, the nets need mending. Crusted with barnacles, the hull begs a good scraping, and a brown tarp that covers the deck is mottled from the sun. The rigging is in disarray, the ropes are frayed. Tethered to the pier, the boat shifts in the wind like an animal restrained; it drifts away, only to be tugged and jerked back again.
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MARCH 2018
CORN - A TREAT
WILLIAM CASS
~
Before leaving the house, Gertrude checked in on her husband, Carl. He was lying on his back on their bed in a sleeveless T-shirt, pale blue boxers, and black socks. His eyes were closed, and the blinds were shut against the late afternoon light. A fan in the corner moved back and forth blowing the hot Indian Summer air. The radio on the bedside table was turned low to a baseball game; she didn’t know if he was listening to it or not. She looked past him to the back of the closet door where the outfits they’d picked out for their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary dinner hung. That had been two weeks ago, but Carl hadn’t felt up to going.
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CORN - A TREAT
WILLIAM CASS
~
Before leaving the house, Gertrude checked in on her husband, Carl. He was lying on his back on their bed in a sleeveless T-shirt, pale blue boxers, and black socks. His eyes were closed, and the blinds were shut against the late afternoon light. A fan in the corner moved back and forth blowing the hot Indian Summer air. The radio on the bedside table was turned low to a baseball game; she didn’t know if he was listening to it or not. She looked past him to the back of the closet door where the outfits they’d picked out for their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary dinner hung. That had been two weeks ago, but Carl hadn’t felt up to going.
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DECEMBER 2017
CINNAMON
JEFF FLEISCHER
~
The very rhythm of the word always resurrected Grandfather’s stories.
“Cinnamon.”
It had been a quest for this spice that first enticed his ancestors to the sea, luring a sextet of Dutch brothers from the quiet toil of village life to a perilous existence aboard a ship circumnavigating Europe.
Only four of the boys had lasted the full junket to Ceylon. They lost one of their brethren to a collapsing mainsail in a storm off Gibraltar, and another counted among the two dozen men felled by dysentery and left to sea off the Horn of Africa.
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CINNAMON
JEFF FLEISCHER
~
The very rhythm of the word always resurrected Grandfather’s stories.
“Cinnamon.”
It had been a quest for this spice that first enticed his ancestors to the sea, luring a sextet of Dutch brothers from the quiet toil of village life to a perilous existence aboard a ship circumnavigating Europe.
Only four of the boys had lasted the full junket to Ceylon. They lost one of their brethren to a collapsing mainsail in a storm off Gibraltar, and another counted among the two dozen men felled by dysentery and left to sea off the Horn of Africa.
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OCTOBER 2017
THE TESTAMENT OF PEARL
CHARLES LEIPART
~
I brought you your moccasins, Mz’sus. I had to take three trains, two buses, and a gypsy cab to get here. I thought you'd be missing your slippers. A chair? Thank you, but no, my leg be just fine when I'm not carryin’ your heavy laundry. But all this cold and rain we be having, been like the devil on my arthritis, and my daughter Bernice's been down sick with the Beijing flu, and there's been no heat in our building since the landlord's been took away.
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