My neighbor, Tom, came to the door. Tom was in his forties, his only distinguishing feature a patch of blond in his otherwise dark hair. He and his wife had bought the three-bedroom house next to ours four or five years ago, bringing with them a pair of greyhounds nobody wanted after their days at the racetrack were over. That’s the kind of couple they were. Tom had come over to ask me something
One rocked himself to sleep every night, banging his head against the wall. One who’d been beaten for clogging the toilet, took to shitting behind the garage. The youngest one had night terrors. Once he dreamed he was being chased and tore through the snow in his bare feet to the neighbors’ and broke a window with his fist. They all wet the bed. They suffered all the communicable diseases, these
To all involved in the Best Small Fictions 2017 contest. See results here. Couple of our folks involved.
At a Wawa gas station and minimart in Newport News, Virginia, a landscaper named Scott stood in line to buy a bottle of Gatorade. He had been working for the city, weeding and replanting a wide median strip and a flowerbed at the mouth of an off ramp, which surrounded a sign celebrating the incorporation of the municipality from one of the original Virginia colony shires in 1896. The job—half
Mrs. Lark is dying. I think it’s the children. They’re like an algal bloom polluting her water. What I know is that when I lived with her all those years in her yellow-walled apartment, Mrs. Lark seemed healthy. Then in August, she scooped me into a plastic bag and brought me here. She said to me, “I’ll bet you didn’t know I used to teach. That was long before your time. It’s been fifteen
You imagine a life in a small Midwestern town where you teach Calculus at the community college and buy sweet corn at the Farmer’s Market on Thursdays in the town square. Your big yellow dog named Jethro chases squirrels up trees in your fenced backyard and it’s all fine because you don’t travel anymore and the days are long but not so grueling that you wake in the middle of the night with a cinder
Americans, Meg thought, understood earthquakes. The earth moved. Los Angeles. Bridges collapsed. San Andreas. Your best China falling, standing between door jambs, damage to the Sam Kee Laundry. The Nimitz freeway.
Volcanoes, she’d assumed, would be similar, except with added lava. But this was so different.
She and Greg were in Jogjakarta, Indonesia, near Merapi volcano when it blew. News reports
The first group of women who invited me into their regular game were from the B team. The club had two competitive teams, but they stayed very separate. The B team players were never included in the games of the better players. Sure, some of them were quite weak, but, in my opinion, the line between A and B was murkier than anyone liked to think. I played with them because I knew that, sooner or
I stand with mosquitoes in my veil in the evening sun and speak words from some other time: of cathedrals and dances at the spring house, green campus quads. The air is heavy with the smell of overturned fields. I drop your ring on the lawn, but it still finds your finger.
You have me sharpening knives. Petal thin against a wet stone kept black in a cookie tin in our pantry. The damp suck of