By: Daniel Davis – Posted: July 15, 2011
It was cool for that time of year, tolerable. The night was hidden by a hazy mist that clung to the van’s windshield. Larry almost didn’t see the kid until he was upon him—a ghost on the side of the road, neither coming nor going. Larry passed him—no hitchhikers, ever. Too dangerous these days. Maybe once, when he himself was a kid, but not now, not after Nixon, after Oklahoma City and Osama bin Laden. He’d spent over a decade on the road, one of the last hardy traveling salesmen, a dying breed he called himself, and he’d survived as long as he had because he didn’t pick up hitchhikers. Common sense kept you alive.
But a habitual glance in the rearview mirror caused him to pull over. Something about the slump of the figure’s shoulders suggested youth.
By: Tom Sheehan – Posted: April 4, 2011
Coming off the ice at the lonely end of the Rapid Tucker’s Pond, his feet starting to numb in earnest, the new snow like razor blades on his face, Bannock “Brace” Bannon was compelled to look behind him, across the pond closing down fast in white fury. Earlier he had seen the girl in the comely figure swing around the edge of the pond, admiring her ease, her grace on the blades, her hair at times flying out as straight as a windy pennant.
One impulse hit him that she was a stranger, not because he hadn’t seen her before, but because she was perilously close to the channel between the two islands of Rapid Tucker’s Pond. In the ten years he had been here at the far end of the pond, a loner in an old cabin that took an endless amount of maintenance, the channel had been frozen only once, and that back in his first year, the worst year of all. Was all that decision time and tempest here again, coming down on top of him anew?
By: Tony Press – Posted: March 28, 2011
“We lived under this same roof but your mom was raised by wolves. We always knew that door from opposite sides.” Aunt Rosie performed a dual role regarding my mom, as both chief celebrant and royal accuser. Thanksgivings came more frequently every year, so it seemed, and it was with particular relish that my aunt served the prom night story. It was a tradition she made new each November, her eyes flashing, her voice rising and falling along a musical scale only she knew. Even her hands and arms played their parts, their instincts honed by well-orchestrated stage directions.
By: Allen Kopp – Posted: March 21, 2011
Holton had come a long way from the city. He hadn’t seen another person for three days. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt at ease in his surroundings. He sat down on a riverbank underneath a tree and looked at the sky. The clouds had lifted and the sunlight glinted in gold on the water. There was still beauty in the world.
He took a tiny sip of water from the canteen. He didn’t have much left and he knew he was going to have to get more, and soon. He could go for a long time without food but water was a different matter. He would never get thirsty enough to drink from the river. If drinking from the river didn’t kill him, it could make him sick enough that he might never recover.
By: David M. Jessup – Posted: March 14, 2011
Tacánecy tenses as she waits to begin her next count. The lightning is closer now, and she readies herself for a silent and measured five. She prays her sleeping husband will not hear the sound she is about to make.
Despite herself, she jumps when a piercing flash lances through the window in the opposite wall and, in a spasm of blue-white light, illuminates her husband’s Hawken rifle hanging on the wall beside her. It flickers lethally for a moment before the room goes black again.
One. Two. Three. Four. Her grip tightens on the soft doeskin shroud on the floor at her feet.
Five. On cue, the thunderclap vibrates through the soles of her moccasins and rattles a china cup against its shelf-mate. Its roar masks the whisper of leather against wood as she drags the bundle a few steps closer to the cabin door.
By: Adam Sturtevant – Posted: February 14, 2011
A man goes to the doctor. He says, Doctor, my memory is bad. Every morning I wake up and I can barely remember what I did the day before. I try to make resolutions to be a better person, to travel, to learn things, to lose weight, to stop bad habits, but then I forget and nothing changes. I make plans for the weekend, but then I forget, and I just sit there on my couch, not knowing what to do. I forget what I like and what I don’t like. I can’t remember why I have the job that I do. I can barely remember my childhood. My whole life is a blur, it passes faster every day and I don’t even know who I am anymore.
By: Clinton Waller – Posted: February 7, 2011
“Floor ‘Z,’ please.” The school elevator was packed, but no one spoke. I noticed several kids glancing at me in the reflection from the brass doors. RING! “Excuse me,” I said, squeezing out into the hall. I was the only one. The doors closed and the elevator resumed its journey. I heard conversation as it sped away. They didn’t trust me. I threw my gym bag up over my shoulder and began down a short hall toward a set of very large double doors. “Whatever. They just don’t know you yet,” I told myself. A shiny plaque on the wall read: Acuity and Physiology. I paused for a second and took a deep breath, mustering strength. “You got this!” I said as I pushed one of the big doors aside and walked nervously to a large desk in a well-lit, modern-looking waiting room. “Hi.”
By: Sheila Lamb – Posted: January 18, 2011
Energy flowed through Michael’s hand, through the torch, into the metal. He didn’t plan in advance what he formed. There was no plan. It was only the desire to begin. Once he did, the forms took a shape of their own. The metal twisted, burned, and bent. Smoke rose, steam settled. His income wasn’t consistent, but at least there was income. He might have said the same thing about women. They came and went but he knew, at some point, they would be there
By: Vineetha Mokkil – Posted: December 20, 2010
“Roll them,” Asha said, setting down a round ball of flour she had kneaded into shape on the smooth marble slab. “Let’s make a circle, like this,” she gently massaged the dough with a rolling pin, Peter’s eyes growing more rounded as the ball of flour spread to the slab’s perimeter. The top of Peter’s blonde head came up to Asha’s waist. He had turned four a fortnight ago.
“I wanna make a parantha” Peter whined, tugging at her dupatta. “I wanna make one, too.”
Asha knew she couldn’t give in to Peter’s whim. She had to get dinner ready and give Peter a bath before Madam got home. Dinner was at nine, Madam would be back any minute, and so would Saheb.
By: Tom Mahony – Posted: December 13, 2010
The knock on his cabin door broke the mountain silence. He rose from his chair and answered. Four young women stood on the porch.
“Our truck broke down,” the tallest one said. “Do you have a phone we could use?”
He shook his head. “No phones up here.”