Short Fiction

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Janusz Courts Dinah
by Sam Vaknin
Janusz thrusts his head through the illuminated window, deep into the house, his desperate shadow spreads across the wall. We shelter Dinah, a chimera of heads and bodies, protecting her from Janusz, from his love, from his contorted face, as he bawls, in his intellectual accent:"But I want Dinah, let me speak with Dinah!"

Mother Love
by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
Adrienne leans over, presses her lips to her mother's ear. "You promised you'd make them pancakes this morning," she hisses.

In Your Wildest Dreams: Celibate in the City, by David Boyne
I’m watching thousands and thousands of people all hurrying around, going wherever they were going, dressed in their suits and ties and skirts and blouses and vests and wingtips. carrying their cell phones and brief cases and computers and backpacks and pocketbooks and wallets stuffed with their credit cards and gym passes and social security cards–and I’m wondering–how many guys are walking around with erections? How many women are striding along just wishing they were home in bed snuggling after making love with a guy they really wanted and who wanted them back?

The Road Taken, by David Boyne
She moved close to him, laying her cheek on his shoulder and simpering in a perfect imitation of the girls at school who followed her good looking brother in the halls. "Oh, Sammy! Three hours of tennis under the hot sun! If you cared even the teentsiest bit about your little sister, you would have brought her a cold beer!"

Waiting with Jo-Jo
by Melanie Jennings (originally published in spelunker flophouse, Spring 1997)
I'm waiting. Waiting in this fucking little sterile room with Aaron slumped down next to me. We've been here now two hours waiting for them to call my name so I can get my colpo and my icing to get rid of the fucking warts on my cervix Aaron gave me. He gave me them unknowingly, but I still hate him for it. And now he's started drinking again and as he's slumped down in the chair against me I can smell the Rainier fermenting through his skin and the cigarettes and sweat and all the fucking we've been doing lately.

Napoleon's Evening
by Jayce Scott
...Yet, as the carriage bolted along on the muddy road, Napoleon could see a revealing pattern, a simplistic and unbending desire of the water, to obey its nature, flowing steadily, following the only path it knew...

Bones
by Melanie Jennings (originally published in, Crab Creek Review Spring/Summer 2002)
I've spent most of my time since that phone call wondering what space means. Because I think I can give space if it means a big backyard with maybe a separate workshed or enough space to get a little Deere mower Owen could ride around on. But if space means a wide-open range with just the yellows of the land and the blue of the sky coming together at the horizon, I don't think I can manage it. Space as the final frontier is not something I'm willing to negotiate. Owen and his collection of turquoise belt buckles can walk right off the edge if that's the kind of space they need.

Santa Loves You Very Much
by David Bobrow
Dear Brandon,

Santa loves you very much. However, you will not be getting the Dual Mode Aqua Command Wave Rescuer thing that you asked for this year. It’s not that you’ve been bad. You’ve been a very, very good boy, except for that one time back in July when you broke your daddy’s DVD player, which he forgave you for, even though it was a really nice one, and you learned a very important lesson that day about taking food into the living room.

Home
by Melanie Jennings (originally published in Redwood Coast Review, Fall 2003)
In the backyard I find Nick sitting in a battered camping chair that has missed packing with his head resting on the chair-back, eyes closed. He hears me walk out onto the concrete steps of the patio and says, with eyes still closed, "We're doing the right thing," as if he is talking in his sleep.

The Bardo
by Tyler Nesler
I had a drink with Maude Gonne the other night. I had so many things to ask her, and so little time, it seemed. It's strange chatting with dead people; they're so ephemeral--every second feels like drops of fickle water passing through your fingers.

Bored at Borders
by Nicole Gordon
In passing, I note the literature section resembles a ghost town, whereas the self-help section is as congested as what the minds must be that are found browsing there. One middle-aged man parts from the small crowd to make his purchase. With him, he carries The Idiotūs Guide to Parenting.

The Misery Loves Company, Inc.
by Dennis Fried
I have often been asked over the years how I originated the idea for the company, which you all know by now, has grown to multinational proportions and made me the world's wealthiest man.

Bury My Body Lord I Don't Care Where
by James Lee
Just before Doc died I looked down at his gray face and actually felt sorry for him, but then he licked my hand and ended anything warm and tender, which was fine with me. Itūs easier to hate than it is to like.

Iūm not against dogs as a general rule; I just hate dogsū tongues.

Just A Regular Guy: A Memoir of a Cowboy and a City Gal
by Luellen Smiley
Looking west to a smear of dusty crimson sunlight, a young man of 20 stood on the shoulder of Highway 66 waiting to hitch a ride. A powder blue Cadillac pulled up and the lad was caught in a puff of loose gravel. When the dust settled, a woman dressed in a two-piece matching suit leaned over from the driverūs seat.

My Dad
by Neal Sillars
When I ask my mum about him she just goes into a stinker of a mood and begins to bang and clatter about the house. I don’t like causing her that grief so I let it go. But I do have rights. My gran has run out of information on him. She’s told me everything about him.

"He was a wee bit wild ", she says.

Golf Clubs Wanted!
by Shawna Smart
"It started when the ship was seventy light years away from our home planet." My husband told the grandkids. "That was the last time your old granddad got to play a good game of golf."

Jenna
by Alan M. Danzis
The person in my life who makes my life worth living is†

"You got any Ammonium AD? I gotta take a dump like you wouldn"t believe!"

I see a pimply, fat face with red hair sticking straight up reflected on my computer monitor. I turn around and see one of the losers from across the hall, Alex Potsfield.

Bums: A Christmas Story
by David Boyne
Butch did not start the riot. I know, because when the riot began I was sitting right next to Butch, in the basement cafeteria of the Third Street Mens Shelter.

Einstein's Eyes
by David Boyne
Inside the jar, floating in clear, viscous liquid, was a pair of human eyes. "It's a whole visual cortex." Dixon whispered. "Whose eyes, Sheldon?" I asked. "Albert Einstein's."

Knife
by David Boyne
…So it’s 1974 and I 'm seventeen and I'm a caricature: the angry young white suburban male.…

Newton's Comeuppance
by David Boyne
…I'm a thief. Call me Robin, like that twelfth century thief with the bow and arrow and green tights. But I don't work a forest, as my worthy predecessor did. I work a beach…

The Immigrant
by David Boyne
…he scratched at the sparse orange whiskers on his chin and said, "He looks dead."

Just Good Neighbors
by David Boyne
…When I got home I found the letter on the table in the front hall, the place I always checked for notes from my wife:Honey, I have left you. I was just not cut out for an off-the-rack lifestyle. It’s my fault, not yours, really. Sorry. My attorney will be in touch.

The Confession Booth
by David Boyne
…It was midnight. I stood in the plaza of the Seattle Art Museum and pulled my collar tight against the seeping rain. I stared across the street at the doors beneath the flashing marquee of the Pink Pussycat Theater.

Star 69
by David Boyne
…I was so nervous I started biting my nails, something I hadn't done since high school. I knew there was going to be violence. But I never thought someone would get killed.

The Veteran
by David Boyne
The bang of the gun was so loud I thought I had been shot. I could not move. I stood there, my ears ringing, until the smell of gunpowder tainted my breathing.

Survivor
by David Boyne
"Ma'am. You do understand that you've been in an accident?"
The woman was my daughter's age. I wondered what she had studied at University. I nodded. I said, "A plane crash."

Making Copies
by David Boyne
This was the one big opportunity of Reuben Sierra's life.
He seized it.

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How to Talk to Farm Animals from Space

First off you don't want to bark
becasue that's considered an insult in their culture.
The best thing to do would be to wear
the same socks all week because farm animals
from space like dirty socks.
After you have introduced yourself
with a finely aged sock
the next step is to carry on a conversation.
This is rather difficult because space ducks
talk about completely different things than space cows.
So you need to find common ground.
Last but not least, you need to say your goodbyes.
The best way to do this is lay an egg.
So now you know how to talk to farm animals from space.

Ryan Towry
Grade 11, A Border Voices Poet