Fiction
Detroit 1972
By Barbara Henning1 Hunter’s in the bath. Linda’s sweeping the floor around the edge of the door. "Hunter, I wish you would put your own clothes away." Hunter eases himself down under the bath, his ears fill with water, his long hair floats out at right angles— a halo of red hair. He watches the bubbles now at eye level.
excerpt: Dark Property
By Brian EvensonThe darkness stripped back, unveiled for her eyes a dim man blocking her passage. "What is wanted?" asked the gatekeeper. She gangled the child toward him. "Yes," he said. "You carry the dead." "A child," she said.
Three Secrets
By Lewis WarshOutside Boston "You look just like your father." A man reaches out and pats the top of my head; the gesture accompanies the words, a disembodied hand parting the curtains of air. The words are spoken to please my father, of course, who stands alongside me, a firm hand on my shoulder to emphasize possession, but I don’t know what it feels like to feel proud— is this it? I don’t feel I’ve done anything to deserve the compliment.
Shitty Mickey
By John ReedRecently, I was afforded the opportunity of interviewing Mickey Mouse at his Chelsea art complex. In a spartan loft of 6,000 square feet, the Marlon Brando of the mouse world sat in a warm buttermilk bath and sipped papaya smoothies (evidently excellent for the bowels) while we discussed his most recent body of work, which surrounded us.
Mamie and Z
By Blake RadcliffeThe radio stations in Mecklenburg County catered to many tastes. The college had a classical station. It employed men and women with deep, resonant voices to pontificate on the trivia related to composers of centuries past. A little further up in frequency, there was a series of country stations. Some of them advertised themselves as light rock. Nevertheless, all the song lists mainly consisted of agrarian themes; outlaws, thunderstorms, broken hearts and memories in the words. The country disk jockeys spoke little and had to have voices as sweet as iced tea.
Pink
By Panio GianopoulosFour women circled the table. No one knew where to sit. There should have been place markers, absent due not to carelessness, or to mischief, or to malice— no, Regis hadn’t designed seating arrangements simply because it was an impossible situation. Maude disliked Emma. Emma disliked Paige. Paige disliked Emma. Kara disliked everyone. Everyone disliked Kara.
