fiction
Driving Adrift
By David August
It was Thursday night, and like so many other nights in the past few months, he drove aimlessly through the city, alone with his thoughts.
Lock In
It’s not the gunshot that’s surprising. That’s just noise on top of other noise echoed by the cave-like walls of the bar. It’s the silence that follows. Shocking, complete silence. Then the screams that pour into it.
Eric and Lyra: A Relationship in Five Acts
By Barry Fields
Lyra met Eric at La Patisserie, her favorite café but one they hadn’t been to as a couple. The owners, whom you could hear speaking French to each other, had modeled it on a Paris bistro, with pale yellow walls and large format black and white photographs of a dozen of the city’s famous monuments. On the wall, the Arc of Triumph towered over them.
Mark as Read
By Kat Hausler
“Can she do that?” Pauli asked after ordering another round of drinks Viktor hoped would be their last.
Seeds of Pomegranate
Usually Rafael was called Rafa, but Hope shortened it further to Raf. Some of the other men who worked at the hotel would tease him when they heard this, but Rafael never mentioned it to her. He met her briefly while she worked the day shift during the summer time, when the sun would bleed through the windows and warm her pale face while she stood behind the front desk.
Death of the Author
You’re alone. You’re alone in a house in the woods. You’ve been running for some time.
Pentecost
By Brian Sutton
Dear Sir: As requested, I shall begin by providing background information about myself. My name is Vernon Lantry. I am fifty-one years of age.
Quentin Compson Time
I took the truck down the rough, narrow trail, rounding the final rutted bend out of the woods and onto the rocky beach surrounding the lake.
Goat in the Machine
By Jeff Blechle
This morning Yeorgi woke up in his backyard feeling a bruise on his lower back, convinced that stacked chairs and vodka were not his friends, nor was his wife, if he was being honest, or his goat Omar, whose pretense of loyalty clashed with Yeorgi’s trusting nature—and poor little Boots lying dead with light bulb fragments decorating her scant cleavage, well, she was no great pal either, always shoving him into hazardous, life-threatening tasks, always trying to get out of paying him, criticizing.
Amma's Achaar
He dug and dug and dug. Under the scorching summer sun, Balram toiled endlessly.