Day after the school shooting in Florida, my son’s elementary practices lockdown. When I pick his five-year-old self up in the parking lot crowded with parents I don’t breathe. I’ve been drinking, is why, so I hold my body in my mouth. “Noel and his partner are in town, we’re meeting for dinner at Matt’s,” I say to my boy, loading him in the car. Strapping him down. “We're good at traveling together,” my brother tells me at the restaurant. He takes a bite from his Juicy Lucy. “We're ... [READ MORE]
NOTEBOOK
Rockaway
In May, Amy called to say she was squatting in the caretaker’s quarters of the Rockaway Motel. She needed her car; she wanted to sell it. When I pulled her old Volvo wagon into the dusky parking lot, I could see it had once been a nice getaway: empty pool in the middle of a courtyard surrounded by a clutch of cabins. Thick stands of pitch pine protected the motel from the sea. The caretaker’s quarters were cavernous and shadowy, a paneled welcome desk near the door. I shouldn’t have been ... [READ MORE]
The Chimp
Down slid the chimp. Not quite like a fireman, more hand-over-hand because the pole inside the four-foot-wide acrylic cylinder running floor-to-ceiling in the middle of my apartment had branches. Surely, shit piled on the floor below – the chimp was good at tearing off his diaper – but the beauty of it was I couldn't see it or smell it, and the rent was great because the chimp's owner kept the top and bottom apartments of the triplex. You'll never meet your neighbor, said the realtor, but his ... [READ MORE]
Days of Craving
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]
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]
I’ll Give You a Reason
I met Maria back in the fifth grade. She was this skinny girl whose mom would always pack her salami sandwiches for lunch. When I think of Maria today, I think of those slices of salami stuffed inside a hardened Kaiser roll. No lettuce, tomatoes, or cheese. Just belch-inducing salami. This was back when Mom would slap my stomach to remind me to suck it in. Back when she was buying me outfits two sizes too small and pinching the fat rolls spilling over my tight jeans. That year I was hungry ... [READ MORE]