Short story writing and creative fiction, essays and non-fiction stories.

Cracked Shell by Sean Gallagher

The man took a slow drag on his cigarette. The ember winked life-red against the warm evening backdrop. He exhaled, thinking about what he had just heard, what she had just told him, breathing out in time with his thoughts. The smoke floated up towards the dim porch light.

“So you’re not coming back.” Flat voice.

The woman shook her head. He glanced down at the floor and rubbed the back of his head with a calloused hand. The small glass table was the only witness to their conversation, the deck devoid of other furniture.

He grunted softly and continued. “Well, okay.”

“Okay?” She shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“Yes, okay.”

She turned to leave, aged boards creaking beneath her slight frame. Just outside the threshold of the room she hesitated, pale fingers caressing the doorframe.

“I can’t, I just can’t.” His gaze rose to the back of her head. She turned, still holding the frame, but couldn’t look at him. “I…” She stopped. “You understand.”

He said nothing. Her eyes flitted towards his but fell short of a reunion. She exited the porch, skirt hurrying after her, and the man turned to face the shore. He rested his elbows on the weathered wooden railing and stared. Blank eyes took in nothing.

A sudden splash in the water demanded his recognition. A sea otter, shell on its belly, rock in its hands, preparing supper. He watched the diligent animal fix itself a meal. Who would crack his oysters now?

He finished his cigarette, flicked it over the rail. The butt glowed warm on the sand and he studied at it as he drew another from his breast pocket. He realized that he needed to pee, but instead closed his eyes. He visualized the house, his house, walked through every room noting every detail and committing it to memory. He opened his eyes and sighed. Sticking the cigarette between his lips and pausing briefly to light, he then hopped over the rail onto the sand. His left foot landed on the first smoldering butt and he picked it up in surprise. It burned him a little as he held it on his hand. Discarding the useless filter, he kicked sand over it and began to walk to the water while unbuttoning his shirt. He removed his blue jeans and underwear and piled them with his shirt about ten feet from the water’s edge. His second cigarette dropped to the sand. The man waded naked into the surf and let the water push him. He felt one with the swelling and receding of the waves. He looked around for the otter, but couldn’t find it.

Dripping, carrying his clothes away from his body to keep them dry, he walked back up the beach to the house. He placed his clothing over the railing and pulled himself over the rail in a surprisingly nimble fashion for a man with his frame. He left his clothes on the porch and went into the house. He spent the rest of his night destroying all of her things.

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and this whole time. by Lindsey M. Brummerhop

there’s something so focused about the sound of a piano key.
structured, but melodic. accurate

yet soothing, somehow.

“well, what kind of things make you feel better, Alice?” she looks up for a moment, pondering this honestly.
“semi colons and the word simultaneously.”

aliteration.

“Aliteration, Alice?”

absolutely.

it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it did a month ago.
“what?”
everything.

the ache has died down considerably. i only remember you a couple hundred times a day, instead of a few thousand. and blinking isn’t nearly as difficult as it was last week. i can take that moment now, sometimes, to breathe instead of rescanning that image of you two for any. possible. clue.

of untruth.

but yes, the pianos.
they help, too.

turning this whole breakdown into some sort of lyric.
just another scene in a script, three to four pages back, highlighted and then crossed out. edited.
finalized

tangibly forgotten with pens and very particular distractions. a conveniently placed coffee mug over the name of a character.
suddenly you are no longer the reason i have to stand still for a moment in the middle of my day, and choke back a sob no one else seems to even see; no.
no, instead our entire relationship becomes somehow just another story i seem to sell right back to you.

names, changed.

and better written.

Lindsey’s last piece for Backhand Stories was “or snake charming”.

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6/69: The Stonewall by Earl Carrender

Stephen (A Typical Night)
You can dance at the Stonewall. Not like at the Candlelight. Or Keller’s. Or Mona’s. There’s the Snakepit but the name says it all. I dance at the Stonewall. Liquor watered down. Boys dressed up. Tequilla Mockingbird, onstage looking regal. Sweet William at the door looking out. And me on the dance floor. Denim-clad, keys to the left. Dancing around like some jewelry box ballerina. Diamonds at her feet.

Tequilla Mockingbird (A Typical Raid)
The lights come on so they don’t catch you kissing. Sweet William gives the signal and everything stops. Too late to change so you go along. Heels clicking. I never cry. It messes up my mascara. I sing. It really pisses them off. Better than being pissed on, Lily Law. Betty Badge, pistol in hand. The lights come on and they take you. Singing, heels clicking. Fags don’t fight back.

Tommy (The Motivation…Maybe)
There’s no music tonight. Judy’s dead. There’s no cruising, there’s the void. There’s no laughter, there’s the empty chair. Judy’s dead. No one wants to dance anyway. Keys put in pockets, not out where you can see. And know. Judy’s dead. We went to see her laid to rest. And then we looked. And then we saw. And understood. So many of us. Judy’s dead but we are here.

Maxine (That Night: The Uprising)
The Stonewall boys were in their element. Wrists were limp, hair was primped. Have you seen Maxine? From the car to the door to the car again, anything could happen. Limp wrists forgotten, beer cans and bottles heaved; rain of coins on the cops. From nowhere came an uprooted parking meter. A blaze of flame in the window, a fire hose; cavort in the spray. Have you seen Maxine?

Allen (The Next Night)
Allen, who never missed a revolution, went with me. This downtown dive he’d never seen before. Allen, who was father of us all, stood in astonishment. A bold beginning. Allen, who held Whitman in his pocket, told the world to fuck off that night. He stood beside those men; their wounded looks lost now. He chanted, “OM.” Allen, who cried real tears, knew a moment when he saw one.

Jake (Assimilation Doesn’t Mean Acceptance: 2007)
Love is possibility and pain. Love is marriage and happy-ever-after. So they tell me. But it didn’t happen that way. Love was a black-haired boy. Two condoms, one mint we shared with a kiss. The dog barking downstairs. Love was a craving for ice cream I gratified at two in the morning. Love was before he left for Paris. And sent pictures of Paris Pride. The Stonewall ever present.

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Wednesday by Heather Minette

Charlie’s here, talking about his story, about “how life’s an endless pit of chaotic bullshit, but every now and then it all makes sense, like there’s some kind of cosmic order, and that’s what makes life worth living, you know?” and Simon’s telling him, “it’s a substantial idea, but it’s already been done, man. It’s already been done.” It’s Wednesday so Joe and Chelsea are here – playing the same songs– she’s high on his guitar and he’s drunk on her voice and soon their composition will be careless and sloppy and they’ll leave as lovers and whoever is scheduled next, probably me, will be too plastered to perform, so the juke box will play Tom Waits. And there’s Alice, sitting by the piano again, that instrument she pretends to know how to play, wearing red high heels and matching lipstick, disguising her writer’s block and making herself available enough for another cheap story that will probably be published the same day she writes it. Michael’s on the patio with his legs crossed, rolling his own cigarettes, wearing that goddamn hat again like he’s some kind of fucking Hemingway in a French café. And Esmeralda’s pouring my drinks and I must say she’s damn good at her “transient position” and my disowned intemperance will miss her if she ever does make it to New York. Thank you, God. Here comes Olivia, being the ridiculously beautiful woman she is, dressed for a fucking Gatsby party, ignoring Michael, asking Charlie how his story is coming along, speaking Spanish to Esmeralda, pretending that she’s got somewhere better to go next. Jake and Allen stumbled in behind her, being assholes as usual. They’ve read so much existential and absurdist bullshit lately that now they’re convinced nothing matters, not even the fact that they’re fucking assholes. Jesus Christ, look at all these fucking assholes, all these goddamn beautiful fools. With their talents and critiques and theories and philosophies and hang-ups and bullshit. And I have to witness all of it. But really, I mean, really? Who am I to judge? I’m just some bastard, drunker than the rest of these bastards, sitting at the bar and scribbling about their lives on damp, used napkins. And in reality, now that I’m swaying on my bar stool, feeling all warm inside, and in such a state to choose my own reality, we’re no different from one another. We’re just a bunch of worried, hopeless, “starving,” artists and writers and musicians and fucking assholes that come to this wine bar for the exact same goddamn reason: it’s Wednesday.

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Do the Bus Stop By Anthony J. Langford

The bus stop is her stage.

Her school associates, the audience.

Any passers-by get a free showing.

7.55 a.m.

It’s her time.

Standing on the lip of the gutter, she pouts, she spouts, gibberish, about herself, what else is there, but she knows it doesn’t matter what she says, as long as they look.

And they do.

Her friends divided. The Green-Eyed Camp.

And the Wannabe like her Popular Camp.

But it’s the boys who bestow her with the most power. While the geeks don’t have the courage to peek, and those with no chance give her no glance, the majority stare at her perfect legs and the way in which she swivels, as she helps her skirt to rise and fall, like Marilyn Monroe, once before.

7.57 a.m.

Seems to be more and more adults going to work at this time.

Funny how they’re mostly male.

She bends forward; allowing her somewhat propped up cleavage to shine.

She’s outrageous, but wants them to think, ‘she’s mine’.

7.58 a.m.

It’s her time.

And she loves it.

So does the bus driver.

Ogling, he pulls in too quickly and the side mirror smacks her in the head.
Gunk sprays the audience.

She goes down like lead.

Silence, for once.

Today, there’ll be no Curtain Call.

7.58 a.m.

It was her time after all.

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