I stood on the shore and watched as Rebecca strode across the surface of the frozen lake, carrying an ax over her shoulder. I didn’t know what she was planning to do with it. When she called and told me to meet her at the park, I thought we would talk or eat lunch in the car. When I saw her walking across the lake, I thought maybe she was planning to do some ice fishing, even though she carried no equipment and had no expertise in the sport.
After she traveled about a hundred yards across the lake, she turned around, cupped her hands over her mouth, and yelled, “Come here, Robert. I have a surprise for you.”
I was freezing and didn’t feel like moving.…
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It was very early in the morning when I caught the bus. Afraid I wouldn’t make it on time, I left my apartment an hour early. I took the most circuitous route to the bus stop; call me old-fashioned, but I find relying on my instincts at the pitch of stress to be much more reliable than aimlessly trusting my phone to lead the way. Even if I have to rush through alleys overhung with baby-orange clouds of aurora, through obscure neighborhoods, or through streets mostly deserted but for the occasional silhouette in a top hat who would cross the street from afar to avoid passing by me, I still feel at greater ease at least knowing how I got to where I needed to go.…
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The bootlegger’s is a pinched, dim shack, surrounded by brush, set adrift from a wiry dirt road that’s barely perceptible from the main artery. But the boy could find his way to it in the darkest dark, so familiar is the beaten path that leads to the shack’s wooden, whining door. He would never venture alone to this place, a place that renders his stomach watery with dread; he goes because his heart is strung taut to his father, a man who treats the shack like a ruinous mistress.
Today, it’s just before noon, and there are only four people in the bar, because it’s a Sunday morning and it’s too early in the day for a drink for most. The bartender Jenny is wearing a peachy-pink lipstick that makes her skin seem sallow rather than enlivened, and though the boy knows she’s younger than most of the people he sees in this place, there is something aged about the way her eyes recede behind thick circles of black makeup.…
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On Monday, he had a first date with a man he’d been talking to for about two weeks. They met at a park a few hours before sunset. They talked about themselves, their childhoods, their interests and intentions. They had dinner together. They shared a drink. They made jokes, and felt completely and utterly attracted to one another. They enjoyed their time so much that they ended the night inside each other’s mouths. Laughing, smiling, holding onto one another, happy. By the time Marcel got back to his apartment, he knew they were in love. He fell asleep thinking of their future together.
On Tuesday, Marcel woke up to a phone call from the police that both of his parents had died. They’d been attacked in their sleep by an intruder the night before.…
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The life cycle of the salmon is a common topic in schools around Washington state. Karen learned about their fatal migration growing up in the Skagit Valley, around the same time her husband Jake studied their Columbia River struggles in Vancouver. Karen remembered painting the salmon species of her choice in fourth grade. She’d painted a sockeye, with its distinctive humped back, garish red sides and hooked jaw. The final product resembled an exaggerated caricature more than the actual creature. Her mother had hung it on the refrigerator for a season before relegating it to a box in the attic with other touchstone school projects, essays, awards and other art projects. Karen wondered if her sockeye was still there.
For Jake, these annual studies of the salmon included multiple field trips to the Bonneville Dam fish ladder and the hatcheries along the Columbia’s tributaries.…
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Samodiva: A Bulgarian folktale¹
Once upon a time there lived a young beauty, whose name was Samodiva. She was a princess in a small kingdom, tucked away among the enchanted hills of mountain Emos. Her father was king Charismat. The king was wise and was much loved by the people, who had long lived in peace and prosperity under his rule. The mother of the princess, queen Delikacia, was as beautiful as the fertile valleys in the kingdom in spring. Delikacia was a woman kind and delicate and she died giving birth to her daughter. Charismat’s heart was full of sorrow but he poured out all his remaining love and kindness on the little princess.
When she grew up, stories of her incredible beauty travelled beyond the borders of her kingdom.…
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The door slammed shut and woke Mere. The sun was already setting. She’d slept for over an hour. Sleeping for two, she thought as she rubbed her eyes.
Patricio threw his coat across the couch. He rubbed his hands. “Cold out there. Low 40s and not even Turkey Day yet.” He reached under her blankets. “Warm in here.” He touched her neck.
Mere yiped and sat up. “Oh my God, Patricio. Knock it off.”
“Touchy.” He collapsed on to the couch.
Mere pulled her legs up to her chest, so he wouldn’t sit on her.
“Long day at work.” Patricio rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ten-hour shift. A car accident. A heart attack. Quiet down at the casinos.” He reached for Mere’s hand. “What’d you do all day?”…
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