Fiction
In Bloom
The azaleas died every winter, and every spring Asha would extract the brittle bushes and plant a new set in the same bed. Her husband,…
Section
Short Fiction
Showing 265-288 of 304 pieces
Fiction
The Bookseller
I suppose that it seems rather extraordinary that I have spent my entire life surrounded by stories but have never before been tempted to pen…
Fiction
A Long Haul
They pulled Leona away from Ted’s open casket and accused her in loud angry whispers of laughing during her husband’s viewing. Leona’s cardigan was bunched…
Fiction
Through the Motions
Sometimes, while grabbing coffee or during her lunch break, Kate would twist her wedding ring off and sit at a table by the door, watching…
Fiction
Caesar and His People
The phone rings like it always does and Kate answers it like she always does. She turns her freckled face in my direction and glances…
Fiction
Screaming for Colin Blake
First was the light. It grew from beneath the eave of the porch as the fluorescents flashed to life. She waved the moths away as…
Fiction
Movie Money
Aunt Gertrude had had no education—had been, due to the poverty and ignorance of her family, virtually a waif—but possessed noticeable innate intelligence. She kept…
Fiction
Waiting by the Door
When Roma first walked to the door, its face looked grim and unyielding. Despite the peeling green paint, it stood guard over the old house…
Fiction
Burial
On a sun drenched Boston day my parents died in a car crash. A driver hopped up on crack and alcohol, was texting and driving,…
Fiction
First Date
The bar is dim and smells of fried food. Neon lights glow red, green and blue on the walls. Incandescent lamps burn dull yellow on…
Fiction
What Debussy Wrote for the Guitar
[soundcloud url=”https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/43782479″ params=”auto_play=true&hide_related=false&visual=true” width=”100%” height=”450″ iframe=”true” /] Peyton recognized it the first time he heard Tito Salinas play the pieces. When the performance ended, he…
Fiction
Unfinished Swansong
Undraped feminine figure; that is, even if infatuated with brevity, David still insists on putting it in three other words: the female nude. Yes, the…
Fiction
Feigning Mirth
There is something about these big towns, they allure you, promise you something beautiful and make you chase these hopes and dreams feverishly and then,…
Fiction
Last Working Day
Murthy was a second division clerk in one of the government offices; knowing which one makes no difference because most of them are alike in…
Fiction
The Prosecutor’s Daughter
Salim Bouhadi, who used to be the police chief in Tiznit until he left in disgrace, hurried up the dirt road away from the bluffs….
Fiction
Papa
Oh Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Where you gonna run to? All along dem day Nina Simone –…
Fiction
Daisy’s Dilemma
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Guild of Contemporary Art cordially invites you to meet the artists Cheryl Dobrin Lena Herrschaft Daisy March Saturday, June 10 – 5 to…
Fiction
Trade-Off
“You have to stop being such a doormat,” I tell Samaya Di[1], wiping the display table we used for a quick afternoon snack and throwing…
Fiction
Impressions
Miles pressed the up button and brushed a fuzz from his suit coat. Executives and their associates flowed through the monotone, white-collar hum of business,…
Fiction
Memories
The memory was painful. Vivid, so perfectly forged that merely to unsheathe it meant pain. Little things could draw it out. The smell of wet lumber, freshly cut. Maybe a combination of words or a strange pattern of falling leaves. Try as one might, it was an experience that could not be contained. Like water falling, it would find a path through, no matter how hard you worked to stop it. This time it was a name.
Fiction
The Echo of Titus
It was New Year’s Day at eight in the morning when I looked out the window, hung over and blurry-eyed, to see my neighbour, Ivy…
Fiction
Mansfield Park
Homing “So, you like it?” Navin asked Puja as they got into the car. “Mansfield Park…” Puja tossed the name into the air. “It is…
Fiction
Uncle Bernie’s House
I stepped into the living room of my Uncle Bernie’s modest bungalow near Islington and Bloor. The banana yellow walls of the quaint room gave…
Fiction
Salt
“… I remembered from the movie that at the end Kiera Knightly keeps getting called ‘Mrs. Darcy’ by the dark brooding guy. So I just looked up that and I got something called Mr. Darcy’s Daughters but apparently he’s not supposed to have daughters yet either.” He led her to the Austen section, in Fiction, in the A’s. How difficult could it be, really? He had heard of that new film from several years ago. But who had two hours to sit in a dark theater, can’t hear anything, can’t talk to anyone, and besides, that is valuable reading time.