For the last fifteen years, Backhand Stories has published new short stories, flash fiction, non-fiction and essays by new and unpublished writers. The blog is currently on an indefinite hiatus, but will continue highlighting the many pieces that have been published over this time. Please read them, enjoy and share!

Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

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.… Continue >>

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… Continue >>

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,… Continue >>

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… Continue >>

The Urn by Holly Day

“You don’t want to see the body,” said the man with the dirty shirt. “I don’t know how long she was in there before we called the police.” “You don’t want the last picture you have of your mom being that thing in there,” added his girlfriend, shoving her hands in her pockets, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t seen her like that, and I didn’t even know her.” “Thank you for all your help,” said Lee. She did not want the couple to keep talking. Every word that came out of their mouths seemed destined to lay the entire physical tableau of her mother’s suicide out for her. She did not want to know any more than… Continue >>

Things Trapped and Frozen by Emily Roth

I get to ride shotgun in Mr. Gregory’s car because I missed my bus, and I missed my bus because I lost Spiderman in the snow at recess. I got Spiderman in a Happy Meal that Dad bought me once. His arms and legs move, but he doesn’t have a web. Mr. Gregory is my first grade teacher. I was supposed to be in Mrs. Anderson’s class this year, but the school put me in Mr. Gregory’s class by myself when I stopped using my voice. I like Mr. Gregory. He lets me read big kid books in class and he doesn’t yell. But sometimes his face gets really red and he stares at his hands for a long time,… Continue >>

The Road to Something by Peyton Docks

“What am I supposed to do?” Lanie cried into the empty space. “What do you want me to do, when there is nothing!” She stumbled forward, cursing herself for wearing the wrong shoes. The type of shoes that gave her blisters on the heels of her feet that hindered her ability to walk distances longer than five minutes. Then again, she hadn’t planned on wandering around, speaking to nothing. Her nose was running from the tears, but instead of reaching into her pocket and pulling out the Kleenex she had brought, she wiped it on the shoulder of her sleeve. Screw personal hygiene. It was hot and humid out, not the keenest day to be outdoors. The smart, would be… Continue >>

Warrior by Eric LeGrow

Sitting above a crossbar of steel, high above the roaring New York, so staggering a view, I knew a man, though he was not my friend. He stayed isolated from the group, working the harder jobs along the trim steel, hauling wires and jumping rails, as if he dared God to let him slip. When the boys ate their lunches hundreds of feet above the solid concrete, he drank from a small silver flask, the only sustenance we ever saw him ingest. But that man, alone atop the blaring city, rivaled the memory of Hercules. Watching him work, you could image him beating raw ore into form. A brute who a thousand years ago would have been hailed a God,… Continue >>

I Also Hate the Irish by Mark Biscan

Nancy was telling Tom about her friends who recently adopted a baby from a Russian orphanage. “The poor thing,” Nancy said over her dinner plate, “she’s been so neglected. If you play peek-a-boo with her she cries because she thinks you’ve gone away. Can you imagine? Those people put that baby in a crib and let her stare at the ceiling for 6 months. But Ginny and Brad are determined to help her developmentally. Obviously, she’s got some problems.” Tom slowly chewed his salad. “How can you tell?” he said with a mouthful. “How can I tell they are determined? Because they told me. You should see them. They are so in love with that child!” “No. I mean, how… Continue >>

Number 23 Hemlock Street by Dan Rys

“You could rip a piece of paper into a hundred thousand million pieces and you still would have no idea,” she told me on that lonely Autumn day when we both felt the first winter chill creep in. “You could burn up all the grass and all the fields of Calvin Coolidge High School into smoldering ash, and you wouldn’t have a clue.” We were lying in the biggest pile of leaves in the neighborhood, a pile we had raked ourselves (at her father’s gentle suggestion), lying head to head as she finally poured it all out. “You could pick all the most beautiful flowers, wrench them from the comfort of their homes, and throw them off the highest cliff,… Continue >>