Fiction – Page 6 – swamp pink

Dear Shadows

December 10, 2019

The last time Katie had talked to Colin Reynolds had been in the spring of 2000 in a sad little rental house with a banana-colored refrigerator, sparse lighting, and abundant water bugs. They’d ended up there on the west end of town after a party. Their conversation—brief, inconsequential yet overinflated—had been a prelude. Soon thereafter,...

The Joke

There’s a joke my grandmother loved to tell that starts with an old man wilting on his deathbed. His friends and family have gathered downstairs to await the inevitable as his wife prepares an elaborate meal for them. The old man hasn’t eaten in days but the scent of potatoes and herring wafts up the...

What Do You Have To Show Me?

Simon was drawn to Pippa’s dating profile because she was pretty—dark eyes and longish brown hair with bangs—and her name sounded like she’d be good in bed. Thirty-four, a year older than Simon, she described herself as a part-time English professor and full-time poet. Googling her he found her poem, “Hannah and Otto,” in a...

Until the Flood Came

December 20, 2018

Molly’s son did not want to talk about his new girlfriend. The two of them were eating dinner, and he was telling a story about a boy who slipped in the cafeteria and sprained his ankle. “And my girlfriend—” he said, and his eyes got real wide and his entire body shut down, his fork...

The Feral

December 20, 2018

During adolescence, it’s innocent enough, a method for curing loneliness or boredom: a boy sinks his teeth into his finger and watches a small self, a petite and perfect miracle, emerge from the wound. The copy, red and raw like a newborn, no taller than a pencil eraser, is yet proportioned like the original boy....

Somewhere South of Wichita

The online chat room forums warned against hugs. Too much too soon can be overwhelming, ruthann67 wrote, reminding readers that in federal prisons inmates, especially male inmates, generally had no positive physical contact for years and that adjusting to fond family interactions might prove difficult. This note was followed by a slew of grotesque comments...

Foreign Exchange

Franz was a special case, April’s mother said, not like other kids. April asked, “Different how? And from kids in America or ones in Germany?” Her mother reminded her it was West Germany. And, also, that they shouldn’t ask Franz too many questions. April wanted to know why. Wasn’t West Germany the good Germany? What,...

Jackbeetle

December 12, 2017

One of the first things I did, when I moved my family to this old town that’s new to us, was to find a new primary care doctor and schedule a physical. I don’t like taking chances, health chances least of all, what with cancer rates spiking all over and the atomic fringe growing nearer...

Quantum Convention

December 12, 2017

In the Marriott ballroom a hundred of me have gathered. I thought it was going to feel like a funhouse—you know, with the mirrors—but it’s nothing like a funhouse. It’s more like a family reunion, except you don’t know anyone and it’s all cousins. Fat Me is in the corner with a plate of kale...

Better Not Tell You Now

November 30, 2017

Daisy picking daisies, is how it all started. We were sitting outside the cafeteria, early spring and wildflowers sprinting out of the overgrown soccer fields. Goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace and daisies, white with soft-boiled yellow centers. We finished our sandwiches and fidgeted in the grass. Daisy dismantled a flower, playing He Loves Me, He...

The Baby Cage

November 30, 2017

We lived among poor people, and my mother was interested in them. “Two men sleep in that haymow,” she’d say as we took the gravel road to town. “Not gay, just retarded.” Or, “That’s where the pedophile lives, the one who uses our creek—remember that catfish I fried on Sunday?” She once drove me to...

Animals

November 30, 2017

It’s nearly lunchtime and the woman on the phone is getting snippy, so I intentionally flub a word. “I know this must be fistering for you.” “I beg your pardon?” she says. “Fistering. Fisterating?” “Do you mean ‘frustrating’?” “Yes—I mean that. I use the wrong word sometimes,” I tell her, just as I’ve been taught...