Published Stories
Guilty Pleasure Songs by Peter Pendras
My phone chirped, coming to life. Don't forget: yogurt and bananas for your smoothie. Followed by three heart emojis. A text from my wife who had been dead for a year and two months. I felt a stab of rage. Definitely not the “warm fuzzy feeling” described in the promotional sales claptrap. When Diane passed, I wanted the simplest, most straightforward process. Take the body to the industrial oven and turn it to dust. Give me the dust in a cardboard box. Done.
Trouble at the Flagship Cinnabon by Layla Ormbrek
Soon after my family moved to Federal Way, my mom told me that the SeaTac Mall had the first ever Cinnabon. The flagship. In my seven-year-old mind, this meant importance, gravitas. We tried it out one day, the gloopy mess of dough and icing practically heaving atop our paper plates. Even as a typically greedy child, I knew that there was something excessive about a Cinnabon, that it could be the gateway to some very bad things. Judiciously, my mothersliced mine into quarters with the flimsy plastic knife. Soon after gobbling up a few bites, I went droopy and lethargic for the rest of the afternoon.
That day, I learned that Cinnabon was a luxury that would make you pay in the end. But it was one of the few claims to fame that Federal Way had, other than being a place where the Green River Killer would go hot-tubbing or where apartments were cheap. I’d felt part of something important when we lived in Seattle, where you could travel 600 feet up the Space Needle or watch people throw fish in the Market. Down in the suburbs, I felt beige andinsubstantial. Even at a young age, I noticed this difference in how a place could make you feel.
Mirror Lights by Jamie Gogocha
The staccato of Nadine’s shoes on the rocks and the rising panic in her breathing created a jarringcombination of sounds. She hadn’t quite broken the tree line yet when the sky faded from a paleblue to a deepening violet. The only thing worse to her than being outside after sunset was being inthe woods after sunset. That was unthinkable.
She took a moment to steady her breath appreciate the silhouettes of the house and trees against theartistry in the sky. Her chest burned and her heart felt as though it would leap out toward thehorizon. Nadine started when a muted rustling caught her attention. She couldn’t place its source, soshe turned her head this way and that to try to pick it out. Quickly, she gave up looking and strodetoward the house. She noticed as she got closer to the ornate wooden door, the sound intensified. Itwent from a soft rustle to the rush of static in her very soul like that of a record that spun long afterthe orchestra had packed up and gone home.
Stuffed Monkey by James K. Smith
“The Miami Conference is different than other conferences,” Dr. Hines told me one day, when he came to my dental parlor for a new crown on his second molar. “The heat just gets into your pores. Everybody goes a little crazy. I saw a well-respected oral surgeon from Ohio run off with some woman’s Pomeranian. I guess he took it back to his hotel room and fed it an entire pizza.”
“Pomeranians aren’t supposed to eat pizza,” I said.
“Not that one, anyway.”
I first became acquainted with Dr. Hines in the fall of 1934, at the North Dakota School of Dentistry. I do not know whether it was luck or pure coincidence which led us both to begin our practices in Chicago, but he allowed no one but myself to perform dentistry on him, and, at the time, I was newly divorced and grateful for the company.
We Began in the Garden by Elizabeth Beck
Ruth and Grace passed their youth in unquestioning contentedness. As they came of age, each began to see boundaries only as a challenge to be met. With time, the sisters felt increasingly drawn to the domain beyond the black iron gates of their father’s estate.
From their view through the bars, the world on the other side looked much the same, except for a dirt road that outran their sight. They often longed to uproot themselves and find the road’s end. The twin girls would watch carriages fly past as they sat in the garden, busying themselves weaving daisy chains or pulling weeds.
Of All The Wants And Hungers by Samuel Snoek-Brown
There had been gossip lately among the neighbors that a pair of foxes were living in an abandoned lot. Lock up your cats, they said.
I’d seen one of the foxes on a walk a while ago, the slender red face peering from under a bush down near the railroad tracks. It seemed friendly enough, or maybe I would say cautious. Not menacing, anyway, and small enough that most of the neighborhood’s bruiser cats could handle the fox in a fight. Those bright eyes in the undergrowth seemed almost timid, at a distance.
But then, sure enough, Gene’s cat went missing. And Gene’s cat was one of those bruisers, a big tabby who ruled his block and went where he pleased, including into neighbors’ homes if they left their dog flaps unmonitored.
Whatever got it was no fox, Gene insisted.
Hole Wall (an excerpt) by Jonah Barnett
Emily owned too much stuff, and it became pretty apparent as we loaded the U-Haul that she wouldn’t part with any of it. It had been a puzzle, fitting it all in, but we had succeeded in real life Tetris and were on our way to Astoria. We drove parallel to the sea, separated only by a jagged line of rocks running between ocean and asphalt. Choppy gray waters crashing against the rocks in impressive displays, while a bright fog permeated the landscape as flocks of seabirds littered the white abyss like flies. Rain shouted against the windshield.
“I really should’ve thought of this sooner,” Emily drove the U-Haul through the weather like it was nothing. “Cuz like, my uncle’s always complained about never having enough help at the hotel, and I get to live on a beach guys!” She laughed at the thought of her new life, two hours south into the wilderness away from everyone she loved, helping her uncle’s business while living in a cottage by the sea.
Year of the Pig by James A. Gilletti
Usually, the strange invasion of unwanted touch throws my ogre switch in a heartbeat, but at that moment, it soothed me. Like that first sip of bourbon from a new bottle, she warmed something in me that had gone untended for ages. Careful, I thought to myself. If this night’s headed where I think it is, I’d better keep my nightshirt on. I wouldn’t want her to catch a glimpse of those old battle scars and run away screaming.
Red by Miel MacRae
The gun was clean. Loaded. Double-checked. His knife, the one he had carried always, she held a moment before strapping it to her belt. There were five who must die today. Outside her blinded window, dawn was about to break over the minarets. The muezzin sing-songed beckonings to adhan.
The men who took him last night hadn’t seen her. His body would not get cold before she enacted her revenge. The first was Gadi. He was a whore-lover. The second was Azzam, he had a scar across his face from his penchant for bar fights. Zero was famously addicted to opium. Marid sold carpets at the bazaar. Jibril was a gambler. Despite the call the adhan, she knew the hypocrites wouldn’t be among the crowds.
Squirrels Hate Robots by William Turbyfill
“Squirrels hate robots.” He says it with such earnestness that it catches me off guard
“I beg your pardon.”
“Squirrels. Hate. Robots. It’s really not that complicated.” The five year old is right. It is not a complicated concept to comprehend and yet, I have questions, not the least of which is, ‘if squirrels hate robots, do robots in turn, hate squirrels?’ “I could draw you a picture of it if that would make it easier for you.” I’m not a fan of his condescending attitude.
“How do you know this, about the robots and the squirrels and what not?” I say this while looking for a pencil and paper. As much as I want to smack him, if I’m honest, I also really want him to draw me a picture of squirrels hating on robots.
A Boy and His God by Christian Carvajal
My dad’s so twentieth century. F’real, though, he tries to be cool, but everything he does makes him stick out like a total noob. “Jake,” he says, patting my shoulder in what he hopes is a fatherly way, “the world hasn’t changed. People have all the same hopes and fears they ever had, no matter what the calendar says.” This from the guy who still pines for his old computer keyboard. Mom threw that out years ago, back when pretty much all of Western civilization went forty-gig universal WiFi. Poor old Pops still hasn’t figured out how to talk to the web through his implants.
“Dad,” I remind him, “we don’t use calendars anymore. We have nanos for that. Join the planet you live on.” I think Dad might be the last surviving Alzheimer’s patient. He’s adorable, I swear, even when he slumps around the house bitching under his breath about living in the goddamn Matrix. The Matrix was an old two-D sim for kids. Like I said, he’s a fossil; but, you know, he’s my dad and, like, what can you do.
Dedicated to Steak Knife by Nicholas Stillman
Thomas tried to avoid eye contact with the homeless milling around his apartment. He possessed a long-standing fear of being mugged on his walks to and from the university. He knew he presented a target. His clothes might as well be a bullseye buttoned smartly to his body. Today was no exception as it was Oxford day, both in shoes and choice in button-up. Oxford, he thought about the college with longing–one day he would make it there. One day his novel would get him in.
It was early and the mist limited his sight line to a matter of feet. He tried to walk confidently down 11th, but this was the most dangerous block of his commute, so his ears were perked sonar detectors.
Chuy and Friends by Daniel Rahe
It was clear the instant they drove into the campground that this would not be the kind of camping adventure warmly recalled years later. The site itself was faultless — a shady valley divided by a creek that emptied into a mountain lake. For the two young couples crammed into a Subaru that would still smell like a new car if not for the can of beer that had spilled on the carpet, who had driven across the entirety of a state to be here, a dream was about to be dashed. And what a beautiful dream: old friends huddled beside a popping-hot fire under the stars, drinking from a small bar lovingly packed into an old Samsonite briefcase — a night of karaoke without a soundtrack, half-true stories, shit-shooting, blowing off steam. Laughing. When do we ever laugh as hard as we do when we are camping and drinking?
Approval Rating By Titus Burley
Jerry ushered the aide and intern into his office gesturing for them to sit in the two leather chairs that had been placed in front of his mahogany desk. He hated afternoon meetings but his chief of staff had been adamant that he block fifteen minutes for these two. He appraised them as they moved to the seats, his eyes roving from the shorter young man with his Caesar cut bangs and lingering on the slim-waisted blonde in the teal mid-thigh skirt that accentuated her impossibly long legs. If it had been a morning meeting, he would have held court formally, ensconcing himself behind the desk in his throne-like, though surprisingly ergonomic, chair. Instead he moved aside a family photo and sat casually on the edge of the desk, the lip of the desk deep enough that had he wanted he could have kicked his feet like a small child on a swing set waiting to be pushed into motion.
(That’s) What Friends Are For by Joshua Swainston
It wasn’t until he scratched his nose and said, “I’m getting outa here,” that Reggie knew Lou was holding out. The nose thing was a tell, a learned behavior from years of dedicated opiate use. Red faded lines scored across his nostrils, inflamed with each rake of nail on skin.
The living room curtains had been drawn days ago, in an attempt to curse the sun, as well as entire straight world that thrived in its rays. The only remaining notion of time blinked from the DVD/VCR combination, but even in sobriety the neon numbers were held suspect. OxyContin metered the days at irregular intervals that suffered mania, desperation and beautiful, beautiful nothing.
The Faithful Wife by Lory French
“I told you I wasn’t ever going to go into sordid details,” Olivia sighed, tired of the drawn out conversation. Dave could be such a little bitch when he wanted to be. She was tired and knew that tomorrow morning was only going to bring a long march of more whining from the kids she’d be chaperoning up to Everett for a field trip on some whale watching boat. She ran her hand longingly over her empty pillow.
“I need to know now. I know I said I was ok with it, but I just …. I can’t take looking at every guy we know and wondering ‘Is it him? Did he know I gave permission? Is he laugh…”
Knock Knock by Gregg Sapp
Sick of waiting patiently and tired of being taken for granted, Molly decided that when Leon finally showed up, she was going to ream him a brand new one. She was beyond fed up with his lame excuses, followed by dubious promises to do better and cloying declarations of his love for her. Lately, she saw more of him on Instagram and YouTube than she did at home, in the flesh with her.
The Yellow House by John Maki
Coming from apartments, the yellow house felt huge. The left split descended into a kitchen, dining room, and roughed-in area with plenty of room to play. The right ascended to the living room, bathroom, bedrooms, and a deck overlooking a lumpy dirt yard. The middle landing opened onto a small garage that would hold everything male: cars, bikes, lawn equipment, and later my father’s grief.
Frank Does Not Fall by Cherie Lynae Suski
An Angel arrives on Frank’s back porch, but this Vietnam Vet and Tacoma native isn't easily impressed. When Frank asks the Angel why he’s there, the answer is: your son “didn't want you to answer that door by yourself.” The doorbell rings and Frank is faced with news he never expected to receive.
Good Intentions by Layla Ormbrek
You could say that I frequented the cemetery. Its green, manicured stillness steadied me, and I made it a regular stop. It was the perfect place to wander around during lock-down, being the only outdoor space that was never crowded.