Printed by Permission of Punkin House Press
Photography by Alex Taylor
'Sooooo, let me get this straight,’ Sergeant
Porter said to the tiny woman folded into the corner of her sofa with a
thick wool throw. Soft tones glowed in the room: peach,
maybe salmon. Porter didn’t know from paint and fabric, but he knew ugly, and
the cane propped beside this little lady was ugly—a knobbly black excuse of
wood with a crooked question mark for a handle. In fact, the whole thing was
much too big for this little lady with the tight curly hair and the bright,
‘Your name is Bonnie, did you
say, Bonnie Peeples, spelled P-E-E-P . . .’ He winked at his partner. ‘And
you’ve lost your sheep. . .’
Published in Summer, 2012 in
The Republic of Ireland journal, The Linnet’s Wings: Green Sheep
Also available from Amazon
at Green Sheep
‘It’s beginning,’ her father said and pointed
out the window. When she stood to look, she saw the wheat
collapsing in waves, cringing from the prowl of the wind. The sky had changed
moods and smudged from sepia to brown to black. Over at Lyle Hawkley’s place, a
chimerical wind chimney jerked a mad polka. ‘Doesn’t look good,’ her father said. ‘Lyle
has the oldest barn in the county. It’s a wonder that tough old building is
still standing.’ Above them, the bones of their old
house creaked and groaned. Even down
in the cellar the air felt as if it could snap at any moment. Anne wondered if
the ceiling would cave and trap them. Then came the sound of glass shattering
upstairs, and she felt her knees turn to water. . .
Read more in the nineteenth issue, Vol.
5, no. 3, of the USA journal, The
Wilderness House Literary Review:
fat bundle in the man's hand stretched to Tommy like a gift.
He could taste the sweet and salty fat of the wiener, the sugar of the ketchup,
the juice of the relish. Even onions he wouldn't mind. He climbed down and took
the foil package from the man, taking care to thank him. His mother had always
said you should show city people that you know your manners; you don't want
them to think country people are ignorant. ‘You're welcome, sailor.’ The man sat
down and watched him eat. When
the hot dog was gone, Tommy picked the relish bits from the foil. ‘I like a hungry boy,’ said the man. ‘Would
you like more? Come, little man, I'll show you more.’ He smiled at the boy and
his teeth glistened like Chiclets. Then he put one soft shoe on a stone and
jangled the coins in his pocket. . .
Read more in the September 9, 2010
issue of The Piker Press: Caravan
Or in Vol. XVIII of the Canadian journal, Ydgrasil, May 2010: Caravan
‘. . . she
has this book club, you know? They sit around each Thursday in a circle and talk.
It’s so irritating. She always wants me to ‘contribute,’ as she puts it: ‘Your turn, Hazen, now it’s your turn.’ She
has this obsession that people have to contribute.
. . Steady, predictable, orthogonal Norma, … always at right angles to
his tangents . . .
This story is available in print from The
Evansville Review, Volume XX, 2010.
"The Turning" is also available in print in the Vol.
23, no. 1, Spring 2011 issue of THEMA Literary
Journal, under the theme, The Trip Not Taken.
A GOOD BELIEF IS HARD TO FIND
what are you working on today, Ben? Something for Blind and Faith?’
at his thin frame draped in its wrinkled denim, so unlike her hearty plumpness.
‘What is it
again, Blind Faith?’
inside the pile of denim. ‘Not Blind,
mother, Mind. Mind and Faith.’
child, Ben had come scuffling home after a hiking tour in South America last
year, towing duffel and dog. The trek for Ben and his best friend Peter
Bruckner had been, she supposed, the 2006 equivalent of the Grand Tour for her
and Claude twenty-five years ago. But she had not been seeking to 'find
herself'. She had never been lost. . .
The Piker Press said of this story: “Science and reason can
explain much, but which perceives clearly, the mind or the heart, when
something has no reason at all?”
Read the story in the
November 15, 2011 issue of the USA journal, The Piker Press: A Good
teacher did not enter the room so much as glide, all lean and languid, dressed in black, hair in the hue
and texture of bread mould. Somebody was already there, a lumpen type in gray
polyester, taking root in one of the chairs, an unimaginative pudding of a man,
a man whose idea of formal dress was a shiny suit and canvas sneakers with brown laces. He looked like a man who had settled into a simple existence
of predictable projects and humble endings. . .
The Piker Press asks: “Is it what you learn from a teacher of writing, or does the class show
you what you need to learn about yourself?”
Read the story in Issue 18, September
2010, of The Istanbul Literary Review, Turkey: Night
Dan Webb had been dead less than a month when his wife Nell came down for breakfast one
bright morning and found him sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her.
This was the real Dan,
in his finest sweater and slacks, not the wasted stranger in a hospital or the
waxed exhibit at the funeral parlor. This was courtly and contented Dan,
sitting with a straight back,
at her. . .
Read more in the March 2010 issue of the USA journal, Menda City Review: Puzzles
This story was reviewed November 30, 2011 by
The last six stories are available as a collection: Tornado and Other Seasons
Back to Top