Archive for the 'Fiction' Category
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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Posted on November 2, 1999.
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A short story by Terence Watts
Mickey swore loudly as he jerked his unpolished, size eleven winklepicker boot at the side of the jukebox, trying for yet another free play.
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Posted on October 30, 1999.
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A short story by Rab Haney
I looked up toward the clouds one afternoon, and saw something falling toward me. It was a safe. Splat. End of story.
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Posted on April 30, 1999.
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by Troy More
By most accounts, the drive-in theatre on Highway 17 should have been a peaceful, relaxing place to take the family for a night of reasonably priced entertainment. The only downfall that kept it from being so was its location, almost exactly halfway between our hometown of Mosquito Flats, and the town of Sodbuster Junction, whose inhabitants where the natural enemies of our people. Where this rivalry began has been lost to the mists of time, perhaps it was at a softball tournament, or a school basketball game, but whatever the reason, it was our duty to despise them.
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Posted on March 22, 1999.
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by Alan C. Baird
I watched the tiny bird hop down the sidewalk on Grand River Avenue, a busy six-lane thoroughfare which separates East Lansing and the campus of Michigan State. From a distance, the little fellow seemed aloof and unconcerned. But as I strolled by, in the middle of my Saturday shopping, he got spooked and hopped toward the street. I wasn’t paying much attention: on some level I just assumed that he would fly away, as birds usually do. After all, most of them have a fairly wide comfort zone. But nagging at the back of my brain was a question as to why this bird was still on the ground at a distance of three, two and now one foot away? Evidently he decided that one foot was close enough, thank you, and he fluttered out into the middle of traffic.
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Posted on December 23, 1998.
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by Larisa Dawn
He slammed his book shut and pushed the wooden chair away from the small kitchen table. He had to do something. They had been sharing an office for more than three months. The semester was almost over. Randall couldn’t let Kayla choose another statistician for her thesis. He knew her work better than anyone, and he definitely wanted the chance to spend more time with her.
Randall began to devise a plan as he showered away the sweat and grime from his workout session earlier that evening. He had to think of some way to casually open up the lines of communication in a positive direction. Not that talking about work wasn’t positive for the sake of their careers, but it did nothing for their social lives. “What social life?” he muttered to himself.
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Posted on December 22, 1998.
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by Luanne F. Oleas
One moment Jess was laughing beside a tree, the next he was racing through hell with the odor of death all around him. Chunks of frozen earth erupted from the ground and pelted him. Jess’ lungs and legs ached in the bitter cold as he dodged plumes of black smoke. His rucksack bumped wildly against him with every stride while his fingers held a white-knuckle grip on his rifle.
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Posted on December 21, 1998.
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by Luanne F. Oleas
In the year of lost imagination, magnolias forgot to bloom, Congress taxed the wind, and America’s last fiction publisher closed. When the janitor locked the doors on the final day, Vartan Blazer watched from across the street with a bottle in a brown bag. His sheep dog, Ranger, lay by his side, paws crosses, muzzle down.
Two hours later, the young man left the cement bench. Ranger trotted by his side, a walking bag of rags with no eyes and a black nose. Vartan wandered through New York City’s gray streets in his orange trench coat. The wind stole his yellow fedora, sending it higher than the diesel-streaked skyscrapers that pierced the charcoal sky.
Snow hid in his dark, spongy curls and the pockets of his green jeans, soaking through his sandals to his red and purple socks.
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Posted on December 20, 1998.
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A Read Aloud Story by:
Maggie Bab Boon
This is the ball that started it all.
This is the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.
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