Fiction

Les was fat with crooked eyes and messed-up teeth. And he told me he’d died at age twelve. Died in a bike accident, revived, died again, and revived once more at the hospital. He was grown, but the trauma from the accident made it so I had to drive. “Take me to Waffle House,” he’d say. “Four more jobs before we go home.” He tried to monitor my every move too. Like when I took a call or got lunch. And he hated everyone: Black people, runners, bikers, fast-food workers, women.

A short story by Charles Mines.

He liked to show me things and he liked me because I behaved like I liked to be shown things. Because I behaved like I liked to be shown things he showed me more things, he showed me the town and he showed me the coast and he showed me the cycle route worth cycling. And then he told me about the tides and the wind and I said Ugh the wind and he said That’s how it is and I said: Yeah. Later on he showed me his house and he showed me what he’d done to his house and while he was showing me his house he told me how he’d acquired the house and how he’d worked on it and how in working on it he’d saved it, yes he’d saved his house, did he want to do the same to me. I don’t mean to give the impression that this was a thought I had at the time, it was not a thought I had at the time and in fact it did not occur to me until I started wanting to smash things after seeing him. In his house there were many things to show me, that was the way. By the way that was always the way.

A short story by Emilia Ong.

My father was a good man, yes, he was a good man, certainly he was good, everyone could see he was good, thus a good man, but this is what happens to good men, so I’ve been told, yes, good men, it’s always what’s happening to them, it’s that good men, they always leave. No, sir, thank you, I’m okay, I’m okay here in my bathing suit barely covering my nethers, I’m quite alright out here on the beach, you can keep moving, you and your wife who I adore, please keep moving so I can watch out for the good man. I’m okay, I promise everything is alright, I say to my interlocutor as he passes. I must find Virgil, he will know what to do, he will know about good men, about finding them, he will know, I hope he will know about good men and finding them.

A short story by J. Billings.

They had nothing on him now, those evil fuckers outside. Let them malign him as much as they wanted with their slimy serpent tongues, he was out of here, hallucinating or not. He put everything else back in his pockets; that took a while but it was quicker than taking it all out — it reminded him of re-packing his bags at the end of a holiday and how much easier that was than the packing before setting off. Then he unlocked the door and walked out, striding boldly towards the wash basins.
The lavatory was empty except for a fair-haired youth in a striped T-shirt of blue and white hoops. He turned from washing his hands to stare at Billy, and then into the cubicle he had left.

Read an exclusive extract from Peter Carty‘s debut novel, Art.

When Old Grandmother was a child, she was taken by her lala (mother) and kalka (father) to the edge place where the steppes turned to stone. Old Grandmother spoke of this: her bewilderment, her fear, her lala and kalka explaining that to be grown one day she would need to prove she could walk alone as a person. In the village place she had heard other children mention it. She had believed what they’d told her were merely stories. That the first morning of a child’s tenth year they would be brought to the edge place to learn how to walk again. “Learn how to walk again”—how they told it.

A short story by Kyle Coma-Thompson.

“This is most unmannerly, husband,” protested the Duchess. “You hardly ever see your son, you can’t be this unmannerly towards him!”
“And why is it that I hardly ever see him?” shouted the Duke. “He’s too busy in his debaucheries, he only ever visits if his gambling losses and debts require to be paid!”
“I never go gambling!” protested Guy.
“Liar!” screamed the Duke, “You just told me yourself you went to Ascot, and in the company of a notorious whoremaster and profligate!”
“John, really, do stop it!” cried the Duchess, visibly distressed. But there was no stopping the Duke when he was in full gallop.
“Inconveniences and trains of evil attending idleness, tippling, gaming and drunkenness being a short view of the present shame, future misery and final end of ungovernable youth in their drunken excess. What we must do,” he said, spitting out the words, “is pass this prodigal through the sieve. Then your bad habits will be seen by the objects that we see falling through the sieve!”
“Papa!” protested Rupert, “How can you be so cruel! Don’t sieve him, please don’t sieve him!”
The Duke, exhausted, slumped back into his plush velvet armchair. “We would see dice, tobacco, a wine glass, fancy clothes and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “a tennis racquet.”

Read an extract from Falcon by Nina Stanger.

Fresh shame pooled in my face, shame that blended with alarm as the woman pursed her lips and spat. Her spit glistened in the warm spring sun and pitched inches from my sandal. There was a weightiness to the occasion, a momentousness. She held my stare as I withered brown and lowered flimsy eyes. Then she turned and stalked away. I would like to say I staggered to a stone and slumped, the cold reaching along my spine and grabbing at my throat, but such encounters have been in keeping with my weeks. Many have crossed to my side of the street to insult me by hand; others have left hateful carvings in my car, while the masses burn electric effigies in countless online mobs. Yet where can I complain? My secret is unleashed.

A short story by Ben Walter.

By the time he was thirty his teeth were loose, the back molars showing early signs of disintegration. Mum used to say to me: You’re lucky you’ve got my teeth. Around forty they started to drop out, evenly, one side and then the other. Soon after, he gave up smiling. Even with his dentures in—a rare concession—he refused to smile. It wasn’t only vanity. Mum died and he found he couldn’t work anymore. I tried to tell him he was depressed but he wasn’t having it. I sent him books about grief. We lost touch for a while. I was out on the road. I used to do the circuit as a singer, back in the late nineties. Nothing glamorous. Johnny Cash. Roy Orbison. When I say the circuit I mean seaside venues, a few city spots here and there, functions, birthdays, anniversaries, with the occasional wedding if it was an older couple. I still sing, the way most people sing when they’re alone, but these days I prefer to walk. Performing took something out of me that only walking can replenish. Father never came to see me.

A short story by Benjamin Wal.

Maybe if he had more work to do his mind wouldn’t wander as much. Maybe it would. Maybe if he had more work to do he would have quit his job, because as bored as he was, the only thing worse he could think of was actually working. There’s no dignity in work, he thought. He had known that for a while. His new and more interesting discovery was that there was little dignity in anything else either. Art was undignified, especially if you went looking for dignity in it. Love too was undignified in the end. How can we possibly have dignity when we all care so much about ourselves? It’s disgusting, he thought, how much we truly, genuinely care about our tiny little selves.

A short story by James Bennett.

Both men took sips from their water bottles. The sun was bright and hot on their backs. One man wore sunglasses; the other wished he had remembered his, for his eyes ached and watered against the clear day. They were high up, so high they could see the pale distant mountains standing stagnant in the afternoon sky. There were clouds, there were trees, and there was that sun. The men sweated in the heat and surveyed the expanse that lay before them: from the bottom of the cliff upon which they stood, across to those faraway mountains.

A short story by Emma Campbell.

That’s how I find the box of heads. Unlatching the lid, the case is long and rectangular, about a foot and a half by six inches. It is built especially for the heads, with each sequestered away in its own perfectly sized compartment, and the interior lined with gray velvet. Opening, they all gaze up in unison from their cubicles. It’s creepy. Their stare follows me where I move. Four little man heads, and the other three are women. Each alternate, so first it’s a boy, then a girl, and then another boy. It’s orderly, sort of voodoo or demented duck-duck-goose. Half matted, their hair feels real, like too real, cut away from a wig or from scalped dolls. The second from the left smiles vacantly, her teeth showing, and eyes too shiny. Dark eyes and skin pale luminous off-white.

Read an extract from Jared Pappas-Kelley‘s Stalking America.