Archive for the 'Fiction' Category
Posted on September 30, 2001.
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by David L. Hebert
Margot pushed open the door at the back of the lounge and stepped out into the alley.
Another show, another unappreciative audience, another few minutes of indifferent applause.
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by Ruth Latta
“Young lady!” The voice was soft but penetrating. Automatically I put my hand on my jeans pocket, which contained my money and my keys. A year earlier in this very store, my purse had been stolen, and it had been hell to replace I.D. and credit cards. Now I was wary of my fellow-shoppers. Here, at the front of the store, near these shelves laden with dishes, cutlery and trinkets, it was easier to move about safely than in the narrowly spaced rows of clothing.
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Posted on April 20, 2001.
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by Larisa Dawn
The ride was agonizingly silent. She leafed through a magazine that she had already read three times. It would soon be her turn to drive, and she would not even have the comfort of reading. She liked to listen to the radio, but inevitably, she would start singing of which he did not approve. He wouldn’t complain, of course. That would take too much effort. He would just sit there and sigh and make those awful moans of disapproval.
He, in this case, referred to Sharon’s husband, David.
She would not have to call him that for much longer. She had her second appointment with her attorney Monday morning. She had to survive this weekend with him, and then she could go free.
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by Janelle Meraz Hooper
Note: When this short story first appeared in The Blue Rose Bouquet, it was an excerpt of Chapter 1 of the author’s (as yet) unpublished novel, A Three-Turtle Summer; see the author bio after this excerpt for exciting book details!
It’s A Three-Turtle Summer—hot—and Grace has to dump a man who’s meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe.
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Posted on February 4, 2001.
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by David L. Hebert
Miss Sampson studied the sign and shook her head in disgust. In all her eighty-four years, she had never seen such disregard for the English Language.
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Posted on February 3, 2001.
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by Pamela Rice Hahn
One of my most frequent fantasies involves being the only female in a roomful of dignified men, each dressed in a dark custom-tailored suit and a power tie.
While growing up in a small Ohio farm community, I could only imagine the stylish world I read about or saw on TV: a world where men wore something other than bowling shirts, coveralls with mid-thigh black (or
fatigue green) rubber boots left unbuckled to the ankles, or white socks with their Sunday suits.
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Posted on September 12, 2000.
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by Robert Marcom
Eric turned off the single-side band radio. The White Freightliner didn’t like the downgrade; Eric didn’t like the “squirrelly” feel of her steering. 40,000 pounds of vegetables obeyed the insistent pull of gravity and refused to be jerked around the bends without a struggle.
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Posted on September 1, 2000.
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by Erin Klitzke
They were all around. She couldn’t escape them.
Faces … voices speaking in garbled tones, the words impossible to understand.
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Posted on December 12, 1999.
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A short story by Troy More
If there’s one thing that sets apart those who grow up in the country from those who come of age in the urban jungles, it’s the strong family bonds that form as we struggle together to tame the harsh, unforgiving prairie.
And if you believe that one, I’ve got some prime farm land in the Yukon that you can have at a good price.
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Posted on December 1, 1999.
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A short story by Bryan Dobson
This issue’s Critique Corner: See the author’s bio at the end of the story regarding how to contact him to comment on his story.
It is hard to say how long it has been since Muriel has heard the voice of another human being. The last time she thought about it she suspected it had been a few weeks, at least. As Muriel sat on her blue satin pillow next to the window watching the rainfall she wished for another voice aside from her own. Perhaps Harold would telephone and ask how she was, but that was just wishful thinking and nothing more. Her son Harold had not called in more than five years, yet every time the phone would ring she held onto a glimmer of hope it might be him. Three years ago during a rare telephone call with her brother she had found out where he was. Harold had found himself a job managing a fancy new restaurant on a long pier in Florida. She suspected he was doing just fine. Harold had always loved people and he always loved the sun and sea. He would be happy there as there was little for him to smile about in Vancouver.
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