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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Mary was sitting across from me, her fingers touching the top of her water glass, the sides coated with condensation. Not using a coaster. Not that it mattered, the table topped with pocks.
“Is it going to snow?” she asked. “I know you can’t say for sure, but have you heard if it will?”
I finished chewing my scrambled eggs and poked at my hash browns. “Not supposed to,” I said.
“You what?”
Louder, I said, “Not supposed to.”
She drank from her water glass. “I have a long trip ahead of me.”
“It won’t snow.” The hash browns were perfect; golden with a hint of butter and the crispness factor was optimal. “What time are you leaving?”
In the booth behind Mary were an elderly couple, the kind of people who likely came to this place frequently, maybe every morning.…
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There is a long, barren highway connecting the coastal town of San Marco to the farmland. In the morning, trucks full of produce, dead animals and supplies travel south, bringing provisions to the city’s restaurants and markets. There is a gap in the highway’s guardrails where an unpaved path runs through. Kissing that unpaved path, on a slim stretch of grass, is the home of Mrs. Archimedes.
I used to work in San Marco washing dishes at a seafood shack. The fishermen would sell their haul to the owner and spend the day trading stories at weathered picnic tables, trying to entice me with drinks and company when I came out to clear their plates. They’d offer to show me the nightlife after work, and I’d stay in the kitchen until they lost their patience.…
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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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