January 2016 | fiction
It rained all day that Saturday. In the evening Dad saw frogs in the garden and wondered where they had come from. Mom said that she had heard tell of frogs that fell from the sky. I said that frogs were the second plague of Egypt and that they invaded the bedrooms of the Egyptians. That worried Dad.
I went out with Stacey that night. It rained the whole night as we went from bar to bar giggling and laughing in the rain.
When I got home the next morning the rain had stopped. Dad was in the garden wearing his Sunday suit. He was hitting frogs with the yard broom. The frogs sat quite still as though awaiting their fate. When Dad saw me watching him through the window he threw the broom down and rushed into the house.
“You shouldn’t look at me as though I’m some kind of a fool,” he shouted and stormed out of the house to go to Mass. That’s when I saw Mum standing in the hall in her shabby old dressing gown.
I checked what food there was and went to the supermarket. I cooked a traditional Sunday dinner with apple pie for pudding. Mum tried to help but just got in the way so I made her sit and watch.
Dad patted his stomach and said what a fine dinner I had cooked and that I was a good girl. Mum pushed her food around the plate and left most of it. When I emptied her plate into the trash it had started raining again. I looked for the bodies of dead frogs but there were none and I wondered if the rain had washed them away into the soft receptive earth.
by James Coffey
James Coffey lives and works in Coventry, England.
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
The feral boy sleeps at the foot of your bed. You only get him one weekend per month but he refuses to sleep in his bed.
You don’t get to have sex with your younger girlfriend because your feral boy curls at the end of your bed, waiting, like a stray to be taken somewhere.
You feign sleep, hoping that the feral boy too will close his eyes and drift but you don’t know if he does. You can’t tell.
This boy was an accident. He was an “oops” in the backseat. You had protection but it didn’t help. You didn’t plan on having this kid. You were just fucking around. You can admit that to yourself. Shit, you were young, you still are, but this feral boy nips at your heels like a fucking stray who smells meat in your pocket.
Your girlfriend, who called him feral boy in fun even though it bothered you, touches your naked body underneath the sheet and you look down to your boy who lies on the floor. You cannot see his eyes. You do not know if he is awake or not.
You still her hand and she pouts. She is disappointed. It is dangerous if she gets disappointed because she is younger than you, too much younger than you, and if she gets disappointed or bored, you won’t get that young beautiful body of hers.
But you tire of the pouting.
The feral boy laughs in his sleep, a dream he seems to be enjoying, happiness, and you push her over, rolling away, to try to find the same kind of dream.
by Ron Burch
Ron Burch’s fiction has been published in numerous literary journals including Mississippi Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, Eleven Eleven, Pank, and been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Bliss Inc., his debut novel, was published by BlazeVOX Books. He lives in Los Angeles. Please visit: www.ronburch.com.
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
Wordlessly, she positions him beside her, leaning against the boat’s railing for support. She is now somebody’s wife. She is satisfied with their pose—only slightly more intimate than a prom photograph. Even now, twenty-five years later, I can hear the tension in her mouth. Her gaze is direct, flat. Her thoughts are elsewhere. The photographer fiddles with the aperture, trying not to overexpose the fleshy whiteness of her skin, a princess in her past life.
My father is my mother’s contrast. He is brown and complacent. No matter how many times the photographer counts to three, advances the film, my father’s lips stay a stodgy tan line. His eyes are narrow behind the enormity of his glasses, three years out of style.
I try to imagine the moment my mother has described in detail, the one the photographer captured and my father later destroyed—the only time she ever saw my father cry. The newlyweds drop their arms, turn away. Bride and groom, shoulder to shoulder at the rail, contemplating the churning water below. A cork pops behind them. After a moment, he lifts his hand. He wipes his face. His head dips slightly. Her eyes do not turn to acknowledge his movement. Her hands grip the wood in front of her. A small breeze catches his hair, flutters her veil. They are quiet, their bodies stiff. The boat skips over a wave, lurching like a subway train. They stand together. They do not flinch.
by Moriah Howell
Moriah Howell was born and raised in Penns Valley, a rural community outside State College, Pennsylvania. She is currently an MFA student at Temple University, focusing on fiction. She writes poetry and creative nonfiction as well, but feels she was meant to write fiction. Her dream job would be an editor at a publishing house, as well as an author, and she hopes to make those dreams come true.
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
You must have had the same experience. You meet someone and in an instant, you know they’re the one. That’s the way it was with Maggie. The fact that she’s a ghost created complications, sure. But when you’ve fallen in love, you’re not stopped by the first hurdle.
Hugging was a challenge. I wound up caressing myself, and her arms passed through me. So I make a circle, locking my hands, and Maggie stepped inside. She doesn’t squeeze.
We close our eyes when we kiss and allow the mental image to transport us. Nice.
Now, we’re working on making love. We can’t unfasten each other’s clothes, so we strip ourselves. God, is she beautiful. A little pale, but a vision nonetheless. At first, I kept falling through her. It’s an odd sensation. I thought to rig up some sort of suspension for me above her, but that was too restrictive. Maggie had the solution. She got on top.
I think Maggie’s smarter than me.
by Joseph Giordano
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife, Jane, have lived in Greece, Brazil, Belgium and Netherlands. They now live in Texas with their little shih tzu, Sophia. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than sixty-five magazines including Bartleby Snopes, The Monarch Review, and The Summerset Review. His novel, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, will be published October 8th by Harvard Square Editions. Read the first chapter and sign up for his blog at http://joe-giordano.com/
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
When I was in sixth grade Mom asked me what I wanted to do for the summer. “Camp is good, you’ll make friends.” She said it like an adopted kid wouldn’t get confused. You got me almost yesterday.
Mom and Dad were getting a divorce and didn’t want me around while they decided. Maybe I skewed the thought process. When I looked over the camps they were mostly the kind with cabins or rooms, that I would write letters back home. Mom already figured out that I wouldn’t write letters, she must have known that in college I wouldn’t pick up the phone either.
She didn’t pick up when Dad called. Sighed. Made remarks that she thought were funny, because she would make a funny voice. “It’s your father. God.” I chose a day camp, and she was good at being glad. “You’ll like it, I bet, but if you change your mind, tell me.”
Halfway through summer they seemed to get along. I ruined the process again, righted the train crash of their marriage. Japanese and Jewish; her family fought his family in the war. Romeo and Juliet were supposed to die in the end, but I figured I knew what it was like if they didn’t. I said this to my English teacher once and he moved past the issue quickly. He didn’t want the other kids to think as hard about it as I did, even though half of them had.
They didn’t get divorced until I was in college. I didn’t answer the phone when they called about it; just an email. They got rid of me, but not each other, I liked to think. It was too late to change my mind about day camp.
by Jono Naito
Jono Naito is a recovering New Yorker and MFA student at Syracuse University. His work has appeared in Bard Lux Literary Magazine, Paper Darts Magazine, and the Eunoia Review, as well as online at jononaito.com. He lives with his partner-in-crime and an arrogant bird that looks like an avocado.
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
I tried so hard to keep fear away from her. In the garden, I’d say, “See, honey, a worm,” and watch her pick it up, never showing the squeamishness that kept me from touching a worm myself.
We read stories of strong, brave women, who surmounted obstacles, forging ahead, not allowing fear to vanquish them. Overprotected Understood Betsy learned to stand on her own, and when she and little Molly were accidentally abandoned at the county fair, Betsy hid her fear. She promised Molly she would find a way home—and she did. In So Far form the Bamboo Grove, Yoko and her sister survived horrifying war privations and subsistence conditions before being reunited with their family.
When my daughter went to college in 2002, with the ashes of the Twin Towers still nearly visible, we walked up the Harlem hill, through the wrought iron gate into the university that had welcomed immigrants. Then we walked down the hill to the Hudson River.
“Which way is home?” I asked. She pointed north,.
“Right,” I told her. “The river goes home, If anything happens, try to get a ride north, as far as you can if you can’t get all the way. Route 9, Broadway here, goes all the way to Saratoga. You can follow Route 9 home. If you can’t go by road, follow the river. It will take a long time, weeks, maybe longer, but the Hudson will bring you home.”
She listened, nodding silently but confidently, secure in her strength, in her wood skills, in her ability to find my love waiting for her whatever happened, where ever she went, secure in the shining innocence of youth.
I left her and drove home listening to the rattling chains of fear traveling with me.
by Jane Arnold
Jane Arnold has been writing and publishing nonfiction essays and memoir for over 25 years. During the past five years, she has been writing and publishing fiction, including flash fiction and short stories. She teaches writing and literature at a community college.
