“Grow Heavy,” by Leigh Claire Schmidli
First rule, he makes sure to look in the lady’s eyes when he smiles. Second, he crinkles his like Clint Eastwood. Tonight, many nights, he practices his smile in the tri-fold mirror, locks the bathroom door so his four-year-old can’t get in. He thinks of that Eastwood who could swagger about with a rifle in hand, but could also touch a lady, tender, at the small of her back. Who could work rugged days, eyes creased by the sun, but...
“They Look Like Angels,” by Anna Scotti
The best weapon for little hands is probably the Kimber Solo, if you’re looking for conceal-carry. You’ve got your three L’ s to think about, when you’re training a child– you need a weapon that’s lightweight, low-recoil, and low trigger-pull, because if you can’t get your shot fired off, all the training in the world is for nothing. Mike Clark lets us shoot when the range is cold; it’s against code but I taught Mike...
“Moon Shiny Night,” by Michelle Wright
Good Friday morning. The streets are calm as cats. And the salt-soaked mist, creeping up from the beach. We leave the sliding door open at night and through the flywire it feels its way like braille. Before dawn it hangs from the balcony rails and now it’s just a shiver in the hairs on our bare arms. By early afternoon the sky is a cracked crust out past the glimmer of the roofs. Too hot for April. We recline on banana lounges like...
“The Banshee and the Chef,” by Katie Umans
“Can you sense anything from the kitchen?” her mother asked one evening at their table in the new restaurant, tucking the girl’s hair behind an ear. “Blood? Recent suffering? Anything?” The family had gone to the restaurant a few times since it opened, enough that the girl was starting to get embarrassed, though the chef was always warm and welcoming when he came to their table to ask how they liked the meal. It was a small town,...
“Eye See You,” by Toni Martin
That girl broke down. Back humped up like a kitten, breaths jerky, crouched in the leatherette chair. “You okay?” I say. Loud, to carry over her inward grieving. Head flips up. Scared her. Black hair curtain parts. Looks all around, for someone else. I been here so long, never speak. A big brown statue. Other chairs in the waiting room empty. “You okay?” Yeah, me, I tell her eyes. Black as the hair. She don’t talk. Maybe don’t...
“Our Lady of Sorrows,” by Katherine Van Dis
You think the priest has gone easy on you – ten Hail Mary’s and one Our Father is a light penance. You double the order. If you had told the entire truth, you may have been assigned an entire rosary. You make it all the way through the Our Father and halfway through a Hail Mary before you start reciting, instead, the new words he has taught you for your body: Hail Mary, full of graceful thighs, hallowed be thy neck, thy elegant neck....
“Sister,” by Sarah Elizabeth Schantz
Because all the silverware is dirty, Krystal uses an aluminum tablespoon to smear the yellow glue into the plastic bag. The same kind of bag she uses for Baby Girl’s bologna sandwiches on those days when she packs a picnic and takes her little sister to the park. Krystal likes to go. She likes the sound of the running water, how the creek carries the air, the way this air feels cold as she stands on the rocks watching Baby Girl play....
“The Geography of First Kisses,” by Karin Davidson
Compass Points The first was Leon. A small, muscular boy. A midshipman at the academy. He knew about compasses, easterly winds, how to bring the boat about on white-capped seas. I went for his blond hair and his deep voice, both like honey, thick and golden and crowded, the waxen chambers, the echo in my chest. Summer grew brighter, and I refused to go back home to New Orleans, nearly sixteen, without that first kiss. Sweet sixteen...
“Crossing,” by Branden Boyer-White
When Clara first saw him Virgil reminded her of a horse. He was tall, two hands above the other men in the street; he wore his working life on his body in the strength of his upright back, the stomp of his gait. Wind and sun marked the skin of his cheeks. The War was over, the Union had won and men were returning from the battlefields ready to make a life. But this man was not a soldier. He had a wagon that Clara watched him hitch to...
“A Strange Woman,” by Laura Brown-Lavoie
In her home there are no kinfolk, only unexpected visitors whom she always sees coming long before the usual portents, a certain species of moth splayed out in the wax of a candle, or the wax itself pointing a knobby finger towards the door. There are no kinfolk, which is to say everyone who stays with her quickly forgets that he was born in a place where women could pronounce his name, and leaves in the morning with her kitchen...
“Heart of a Locust,” by Nahal Suzanne Jamir
My son runs into the wind, and his shirt billows out behind him. He says he will sail away. I grab his arm, hard, and pull him away from the wind, from the street, from the cars in the street. “That hurt,” Jake says. “Too hard.” “I told you about running,” I say. “You can’t run. It’s dangerous. Only on the playground.” “There aren’t any cars. I looked.” “It’s always the car you don’t see.” He squirms and squiggles, using his body...
“Quick and Clever,” by Allison Alsup
Sing little bluebird Fly round and round I am eight and reading out loud to my mother, showing off the English I have learned in school. I am the third or fourth best reader. Soon I will be first. My mother pulls a needle, ties a knot and clips the thread. She is mending. Her basket is full as it is every New Year and fall, when the men return from the fields, from Castroville, Fresno, Stockton. She sews busted collars, broken frog...
“The Flat and Weightless Tang-Filled Future,” by Lyn Hawks
Ronalda lights a Camel but leaves it burning on an egg-crusted plate. Everywhere she sees what needs doing: stovetop glazed with grease, counters studded with crumbs, corners laced with cobwebs. She swabs the counter while the boys’ jeans clink against dryer walls, while the baby squalls from the living room, while her head spins as fast as that silly, don’t-go-breakin’-my-heart song jabbering on the radio. Thank goodness Diane’s...
“Smoking Demon,” by Leslie C. Youngblood
Inside our lime-green Buick Regal, Mama hid from God. She had promised the Holy Rock Baptist Church and sworn directly to Him three weeks before that she’d stop smoking. On the night of her vow our short, stocky pastor jumped like he had caught the Holy Spirit right there in the center of his ring-cladhand. Then he smacked his palm across Mama’s high forehead, drenched with honey-colored sweat, to rebuke her “smoking demon.” “Out!...
I have not yet written a single page by daylight.
Harriet Jacobs
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