American Short Fiction · Days of Craving by Elsa Court When I flew back to New Haven the day after the Texas wedding, my landlady’s house had acquired the smell of homecoming. She—my landlady—poked her head through my bedroom door and asked: “Are you in love?” rolling her eyes up and wide like a cartoon character. I shook my head. “Oh,” she said and took my little present, a miniature bronze fawn polished from a succession of past owners, surprisingly weighty. She started down the stairs as … [Read more...] about Days of Craving
Child of God
https://soundcloud.com/americanshortfiction/child-of-god-by-genevieve-abravanel I was drunk. I mean, not usually. Not on a weekday. But that night, Bill had been out with Petra and then he’d texted me. He wanted to hook up. He and Petra weren’t married, not for another month, but she was my friend and she didn’t know and if I told her about Bill, I’d have to say I was the other woman. And I wasn’t. Not usually. I turned off my phone and went drinking, down at Darby’s where they know me. I … [Read more...] about Child of God
Cazones, 2016
My dying father and his friend, the former mayor, told me that if it was stories of the massacre I wanted, then there was this farmer living in a seaside village we should track down. So, we lowered ourselves into the mayor’s old green Volkswagen Beetle—my wheezing father in the passenger’s seat and myself in back—and made for La Costa Esmeralda. From what I gathered on the road, this farmer we were after, he’d been a riot policeman at La Noche de Tlatelolco, the massacre during the 1968 … [Read more...] about Cazones, 2016
The Vacant Field
I stood at the edge of a vacant field. Police who were not dressed as police were looking in the field for things that were dangerous. These were items left by a woman who was not dressed as a terrorist and who also was not one. She did wear a uniform. She was no longer there in the field. An officer picked up a wrench and threw it in my direction. I protested, “You threw that wrench right at me.” He didn’t respond. I repeated. “He threw that wrench right at me!” Nobody heard me. The … [Read more...] about The Vacant Field
Bread Week
1. Your father calls you train wreck, as in, HEY, wake up, train wreck, bud, you’re falling asleep—beady, bootblack eyes narrowed on you from the Hemingway chair in the basement. Your mother is memorizing two-letter words, your baby boy squeezing the dog’s fur, and gentle, gentle, your wife is saying, practice gentle on the giraffe. I don’t very well like the taste of rubber, says Paul Hollywood––suaven, yeasty fellow in a collar on TV. Your son likes rubber. Rubber rings––Rings of … [Read more...] about Bread Week
New Folktale About Myself
I’m sweeping the floors one morning when I notice a gouge in the wood like a fingermark in cake icing. I cover it back up with the rug and resolve to sand it down, but a few days later I see that the hole has widened, deepened. Now I can run two fingers through it. What’s more, it’s soft around the edges, wet to the touch. Hunched over it on my knees, I feel as if I’m intruding on something, the embarrassment of watching an animal give birth, and so I cover it up again, avoid it for days, even … [Read more...] about New Folktale About Myself