July 2012 | back-issues, fiction
A child finds lost earrings in the sand and puts them in her mouth. A seagull picks the corpse of a small-mouth gruntfish and crystal jellies and egg-yolk jellies lie holding in their inner folds the balance of life and decay. Seaweed pops on the rocks. Dry stubbly grass pokes from broken shells and reeds stand up ecstatic in the wind. Sand candies it all. The waves come in lashing their glass nerves at the slope before pulling back across the bay and I run to the water, take a blind fall in the wash. The blessed cold cleans me. She comes carrying my son. The baby smiles watching his parents kiss. Chip vinegar stings my lips. Toes curl down in the sand. Nature forgets itself. She feeds him as it goes dark and together we watch him roll and gurgle on the rug. Up she leaps to find something to drink and my son turns his head to her shortening silhouette. And then I see something unfamiliar in him. Someone I don’t recognise. There she comes, waving her arms so the light of a cigarette traces neon nests in the night. A large wave rolls in. We grab everything and retreat behind the line of seaweed but a bag of clothes is left to the water and I run to retrieve it, and when I return I see them together and my heart knows that it is all a lie – that he is not my child. I put my arm around her waist and she holds the bottle away from my mouth and pours. I gag as the red wine runs down my chin and she kisses me again. The baby smiles.
by Joe Evans
Joe Evans is a TV Producer who lives and works in London, UK. He writes short short fiction and novels. His flash ‘Simple’ appears in the April edition of ‘Flash: The International Short Short Story Magazine’.
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by John Witherow
Mother was in the kitchen slowly stirring a steaming cauldron of Harvest Stew. Both Wesley and Aaron sat in the parlor, gently brushing Marjorie’s golden locks. Sweet aromas danced through the air, filling the house with a warmth and good cheer that had been vacant for decades.
Long had it been since the entire brood was under one roof – and this was truly a harvest to celebrate. Large casks of yams and mead were brought up from the cellar. Even Padre Lorenzo was meant to stop by and say the traditional Navish goat blessing before the great feast began.
Jeremy was wheeling in Brother who nearly leapt from his cage when he caught wind of that sweet slow-roasted acorn squash. In our formative years, we would hand feed Brother stringy bits of mule flesh and leftover crème cakes through his wrought iron bars. I can still see Brother’s quivering lips as he greedily inhaled ever morsel given to him. His razor sharp teeth tearing through bone and vein as if it were salt water taffy. Every Saint Crispin’s Day we would all gather around and laugh with delight as Grand Papa Alphonse would shovel burning embers onto the floor of Brother’s cage. Brother would hop from one foot to the other as his bloodcurdling screams filled the air and unholy terror flooded his eyes.
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by Tyler Gillespie
Remember that time when we were in Target, and you put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerated section, because we wanted chilled champagne (the only way I’d drink it) and Target only had room-temperature champagne, so we needed to chill it ourselves?
And the champagne bottle blended-in with the wines and we laughed because we thought that this was true about most people and things (they blend in).
And we left Target and came back to the store two hours later and the champagne was cold.
And we laughed when the cashier asked us about it.
And we drank the champagne from sippy-cups.
And you told me that you loved me, but I didn’t listen because you always say things like that.
And I don’t believe you.
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
I’d Rather Die
by Kim Farleigh
Enrique Ponce had been hit by the first bull, a blood-stained, white bandage wrapped tight around his right thigh, his awkward short steps placing despairing lights in his eyes. There was a white tear in his pants over his left hip and red patches smeared over his legs. “I’m going back out there,” he had told them in the infirmary. “Are you sure about this?” he was asked. “Of course!” So he was limping towards his second bull, each step like being barefoot on boiling sand, the crowd roaring with admiration. You’re mine, bull, Ponce thought. One horn can’t stop me. I’d rather die than be stopped by one horn. And the ring blurred, the sharpening bull now exquisitely in focus, man and bull uniting, the sword protruding out of the bull’s back, its legs folding, bucket-load spurts of stringy red shooting from its mouth, Ponce collapsing, the crowd roaring, men running to pick Ponce up, carrying him to the infirmary, Ponce wincing: “Now you can plug up the holes.”
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by Abigail Robertson
She talked of working in the factories, riveting metal to metal, the amount of manicures it took to right the calluses. She said it was like sewing together planes. She asked what the war was like. I wanted to say it was like sewing body to body, trying to hold the world together…I told her people saw worse than me. She frowned. I was not a war hero with medals pinned to my chest. I was a man with neatly parted hair who drank too much, coffee and the other stuff. I could not be riveted back together. This was not a callous that could be buffered away. She toyed with perfect pin curls and commented, with a pink pursed frown, about the rain. I remembered the rain, shiny on the fogged glass of my watch. The hands ticking, obscured by mud. Time was obscured by mud and tin can meals and the cold of the trench. Her nails were a familiar red. She fussed with a stray thread on my shirt, flashes of ruby against the forest green. The forest was darker, greener. Threads didn’t stand out in forests. She smiled rows of perfect white teeth. I remember sand and an ocean and foam that bubbled bodies, shoving them against the shore. A cemetery. She asked if St. Laurent would be warm this time of year.
January 2012 | back-issues, fiction
By D. Trunick
Eyes wide, legs quivering, sweat glistening, she feels ready to heave. The thick dusty red curtain brushes against her hands but provides no relief. “Why can’t I do this?” rolls from her dry parched lips. Panic and desperation enter her heart like a flash flood. She longingly watches from the side. Her conflicted soul jolts alive with the increasing brilliance of the lights above. Never stepping into view, her shadow begins to spin and sway to the music. Behind the curtain she stands dreaming of the day she too will be the one in the spotlight.
