Birds squawk an inconsistent rhythm and frosty leaves rustle background vocals in the breeze. It’s the first morning of a week off work and Bernhard Koenig plans to spend much of that time perched in a camouflaged hunting blind, rifle by his side. He’s been out for an hour already, sipping coffee from a steel Thermos brand thermos. It’s mostly calm, calming further as the air shows signs of a quick chill impending. It’s the moment Autumn officially blends into winter. Feeling the drink reach his bladder, Bernhard climbs out of the blind, stretching his legs and then unzipping next to a birch. Up until that morning, the weather has…
Martin: A Short Story by Luke Orlando
There’s a cold wind coming in from the North; there’s always a cold wind when Martin comes by. I can feel it in the bones of this old Maine house, whittling the warmth of the wood away in gusts and howls. Its brittle joints creak and moan as crevices in the ancient beams let streams of air flow through them. Chilled by the November breeze, I wrap myself in a thin, scratchy blanket my grandmother gave me when I was nine. It used to be sky blue but is now faded and smudged like an old ink stain. I absentmindedly pick the rivulets of cotton and dust that spring up…
The Monsters of Eden: A Short Story by Salvatore Difalco
Wulfstan followed Margot into the misted atrium. Ferns and leafy plants made a rain forest impression. Hidden speakers pumped out soothing atonal music. A few goldfinches fluttered about, lovely little birds that almost looked fake. This is where people went to refresh themselves after a long spell in the sun. Wulfstan loved the feeling of the atrium mist on his skin, particularly his face, which had developed the dark green buboes often seen on pubescent males. His complexion, a cucumber green that contrasted sharply with Margot’s delicate aphid hue, had been ravaged of late by these unsightly blemishes, which besides marring his appearance did not trouble him otherwise. “Do you…
The Goodbye Man: A Short Story by Jay Seate
“Life asked Death, ‘Why do people love me, but hate you?’ Death responded, ‘Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am a painful truth.’ ” ~Anonymous The woman flicked an inch of ash from her smoke as she sat on a cement step in front of the small café. Behind her was a sign in the window that read, Now Hiring. “You work here?” Eddie Hoak asked. She looked at him, pulling a fleck of tobacco from her lip. “No, I just enjoy sitting in front of this greasy spoon trying to keep my knees together.” Eddie smiled through her sarcasm. He stepped past the woman into the café…
Other Bad Habits: A Short Story by Sue Ellen Herring
Shaun holds the door for me, but Joey shoves ahead, pulling cigarette and lighter from somewhere. I give him a look, but he lights up anyway, maneuvering his words around his cigarette: “It’s a bar.” “We have to post it.” Boxcar waves a red bar towel towards a No Smoking sign tacked up on the dark paneled wall behind him. Leaving the rag in a small heap, he flips the lids from our beers, then leans across the bar, raising his eyebrows and lowering his voice like we’re confidants: “But we won’t enforce it, least ‘til somebody raises a stink.” Joey blows smoke at me before wandering off to find…
A Short Story by Mark Towse: Hugh’s Friend
When I speak to my friends we often joke and reminisce about the imaginary friends we used to have as kids, sometimes we would play or discuss things with them and even argue with them, perhaps it was just an instinctive way of preparing ourselves for growing up. The general rule of thumb is they would come out on request, when you needed them, when you wanted to play or just not be alone. My imaginary friend was called Hugh. He was two years older than me and an exception to the rule, and I thought he was a prick. Sitting at the dinner table one day, and as my…
A Short Story by Pat Tompkins: Among the Briars
Tantalizing once described how I felt about blackberries. The wild bushes, heavy with fruit, were a gift of summer. But I’ve lost my taste for them. And summer, which once spelled freedom, now just means hot months to endure. I’d been feeling grown-up because I had a new role: guardian. The winter before my last carefree summer, I found a stray puppy. According to my father, “All kids should have a pet. It teaches responsibility.” He talked of his boyhood beagle. My mother was pragmatic: “What happens when it throws up on my new carpet?” I promised to walk him daily and feed him and clean up after him. Failure…
A Short Story by Gary Hoffman: Pressure
SHORT STORY: Pressure by Gary Hoffman [appeared first in Books ‘N Pieces Magazine, July 2017 issue] He knew hoping wasn’t going to save him, but he was doing it anyway. He thought of the cliché ‘hoping against hope,’ but it didn’t make any more sense to him before or now. He was still hanging by his parachute lines where his chute got tangled in the trees. Of course, their training had included what to do in situations like this. They had a large knife strapped to their waist that they would use to cut the lines, and they could drop to the ground. In his case, he was only…
A Short Story by Peter Ford: The Diner
Short Story: The Diner by Peter Ford [First appeared Books ‘N Pieces Magazine, December 2017 issue] Harry Pinder was a chef like no other. He had never received a bad review, or, if he had, he was as certain as he could be that no other diner would have read about it. He prepared only a handful of meals a year, and had not written a menu in almost a decade now. Indeed, such is the way that the tastes of the general public can change and evolve, he doubted whether, upon leaving his current commission, he could ever write one again. His diners, not customers, would write to him,…
A Short Story by Jonathan deBurca Butler: To Hell With Descartes
SHORT STORY: To Hell with Descartes by Jonathan deBurca Butler [First printed Books ‘N Pieces Magazine, December 2017] “See that girl there?” asked Jedebiah Smallman. His friend, arms-folded leaning back on a sulking clef-back bench, soaked up the early morning sun. “Which one?” asked his friend, opening his left eye lizardly. Jedebiah Smallman shuffled uncomfortably on the bench and coughed with his throat and his lips. His friend referred to it, behind his back of course, as his horsey cough; the one he spluttered before he got all…haughty. “How d’you mean which one? The…the one on the swing,” he said, nodding in the girl’s direction. “Over there.” The girl was…
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