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Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Fort Collins by Scott Jensen

Waiting at a bus stop on a redbrick pedestrian walkway, flanked by street lamps, surrounding a bubbling fountain that a flock of geese call their playground, where early morning risers throw away their pennies in exchange for loathly dreams, where a little girl is asking her grandmother what “cobblestones” are, a group of students and businessmen are boarding the mid-day bus system that operates several routes throughout the city of Fort Collins, Colorado. Others, who search for more viable means of transportation, are riding their bikes through downtown, across the Foothills trail, by an out-door venue where a band playing Bill Evan’s Autumn Leaves is tinting everyone’s moods with the saccharine modesty of a mid-Summer’s day, beneath a 19th century… Continue >>

The Blizzard by Karl Thomas Smith

She sipped at her coffee. Black. No sugar. Sour. Lipstick mark: Red; Number 58 – Dark Wine. The taste barely registered. A creak in the floorboards: her husbands’ feet. Size nine shoes. Black. Heavily polished. Tightly laced. “How long have you been up?” She stared through the blinds. The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils: Nina by Nina Ricci. Light. Two sprays. “You can’t leave” He straightened his tie: Two tone. Black on silver. Soft sheen; Next Department store. “There’s too much snow. They’ve closed the roads” He untied the knot – perfect Windsor – and laid the tie down on the kitchen table. He put his hand to his face. Clean-shaven. Fresh. Aftershave: Calvin Klein. Three Sprays. He… Continue >>

Goodnight Robin by Jake Wickenhofer

The wind drafted through the old house perched at the hill’s summit. Surrounding trees lost leaves to the harsh gusts; all forms of life scattered for shelter. The sky was ready to cry, filled with gray clouds that engulfed all of Twyla Forrest. The hills that once basked in sunlight looked as if they could now touch the low skyline. James sat by Robin’s beside. Every few minutes he entered a state of unconsciousness, awoken by his young daughter’s violent shrieks. Robin had been tormented with unbearable fits of pain for six months, and despite her father’s best efforts, he could not obtain the remedy. A cry of anguish rang out, bringing him to full attention. He held her hand… Continue >>

The Hotel Window by Piper Davenport

I. His hands touched her breasts but they weren’t really there. See, she believed that the human touch could evaporate without reason and beyond the possibilities of eternity. But, when she told this to others, they refused to look at the marks on her breasts. But didn’t want you want to touch her? Didn’t you want to see inside her head and wonder how God made naked bodies that hide behind foggy windows? And believed that if she had pushed herself hard enough, she might have floated away to Neverland and never had to do anything imagined. II. His eyes made her cry but they didn’t speak at all. See, she believed that if we could make words from not… Continue >>

I Saw My Mother Holding a Baby Corpse by Jason D. Hill

I watched my mother, once, holding a corpse the size of a honey baked ham. Late evening. Corner of our old street. From my seat on a cloud I recognized its form; watched its tissues dissolve like blood sausage on her just-manicured nails; the spoils of its bloody clots lingering over her lacquered loveliness. Eyes dry. Cheeks sucked in, she buffed her nails, turned on heels that hurt the pavement as the ignoble puddle sizzled, frothed, burped and then congealed into her story. This, of course, is a dream. But most of my ghost stories, which are often nightmares, occur inside my head. I’ve never been afraid of the real ghosts because they are shy and scurry away as soon… Continue >>

Chamber of Echoes by David Schembri

With his head bowed, and the pit of his stomach boiling with unrest, Hector stood within the gloom of his master’s chamber. “It is done,” Graymar’s voice echoed. “You have rid the world of the savage who killed your precious Alice. Now, it is time for other matters.” Graymar held out a small piece of parchment, hoping it would attract his servants eyes – it didn’t, they were still fixed on the floor and far from the present. “Hector? Please, this is of the utmost importance. The name on the parchment is of a local villager who has been in debt to me for far too long, and I-” “It is not over, master,” Hector said through the thicket of… Continue >>

Untitled by Tyson Perry

My legs feel heavy and I want to go home. My ass is numb, and I want to go home. Alcohol and nicotine pulsing through my brain, and I want to go home. I wonder if anyone’s ever overdosed on nicotine. It seems unlikely but not impossible. I’ve been sitting on this curb for 3 hours, trying to sober up, and I want to go home. People still shuffling in and out of the house from where I’d just come, still trying to reach the mystical plateau. That tiny cliff at that top of the giant hill that is just enough but not too much. Everyone chasing the light while hanging out in the dark. Everyone on the same fabled… Continue >>

Up the Garden Path by Avis Hickman-Gibb

Janice wasn’t ready; and she’d been sure she would be. So far, she’d stuck precisely to her plan. “Make a plan, have a countdown list to check-off. Work through it steadily. You’ll do it Janice, I’m sure. I have faith in you.” Her therapist had told her that last visit. And now: Oh, God! Why is it always like this? Panic… sweaty palms. Look! Just look at my hands. Shaking like a leaf, they are… oh Christ! I’m going to be sick, I can feel it. Breathe in… one… two… three… and out…one… two… three. Wait…one… two… three. Ok, Ok, I can do this. Who can do this? I CAN. YES, I CAN. The sunny spring morning beckoned to her.… Continue >>

Jamaica Preacher Man by Jason D Hill

It is 1975. I’m sitting with my father in the sofa-like front seat of his father’s car which he’s borrowed to take me for a ride. Just the two of us. It’s a red car of some make; a 1960-something Vauxhall. I’m ten years old. My father smells of coconut oil. He always smells good—fresh, earthy and natural. We’ve just come from a long drive where he told me to just be who I want to be. “You were cut out to be a writer and a poet. Don’t get sidetracked into thinking you have to be a lawyer or any of that nonsense,” he says. He’s been on this mission to save my poetic soul. His mother has been… Continue >>

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