Statement of Record

CategoryFiction

Further From Home: Dopehead Theology

F
by Erik Rasmussen

He took his time, enjoying the prep and process. He was in no hurry. It’s like getting high was as narcotizing as being high. Striking matches and relishing sulfur smoke and opening rubbing alcohol bottles and smelling ethyl fumes were its own kind of rush, a flood of natural adrenaline and dopamine ringing euphorically in his limbic system, an irony that did not go...

Chrysalis

C
by Wayne L. Miller

"And now?" Gregor asked himself, looking around in the darkness. He noticed the motion of a small insect reflecting the sudden light of his cell phone, having received a text from Gertrude, his occasional lover, asking to see him tonight. She has news. The insect flew beyond the screen when it darkened on its timer, the locked phone's setting being short...

Further From Home: The Paruresis

F
by Erik Rasmussen

It was more than casual, The Desire. And it wasn’t “desire” strictly speaking, he had to grudgingly admit. Larry’s girlfriend Liz, on her way from Brooklyn and stuck in LIE traffic, texted him during the traffic’s ebb. He was sick and he’d told her he was sick, making vague reference to a weird virus going around Long Island and moaning about back pain as he lay on his...

Further from Home

F
by Erik Rasmussen

In a galaxy far, far away, Larry lay dope sick on his parent’s couch.

This was before addiction had taken hold, flu-like, in the early years when he was immune to addiction — he was born free of the congenital disease — his immunity built by witness, by inoculating revulsion to his own family members’ personal struggles with the condition. He was a dope head romantic.

A44

A
by Gary Marmorstein

During the walk from his Avenue B apartment to Second Avenue, Conlon gradually transformed himself into a blind man. He had recently gotten an app for Uber, and his habit now was to have a car pick him up at least three long avenues away, where he was less likely to run into anyone who knew him as Dennis Conlon, a piano tuner with perfectly good eyesight. He carried...

Nondisclosure

N
Gary Marmorstein

When his phone chirped, Barney Mellina was safety-harnessed to a girder high above the new Tappan Zee Bridge. “Wilma’s calling!” shouted one of his co-workers. “Nah, it’s the doc,” said another. It was, in fact, the doc, Barney’s former girlfriend, Hannah Leland. She told him she had just been fired by the cosmetics tycoon Rick Schoenberger, whose personal physician...

House of Orleans

H
by Robert E. Tanner

I threw out the magazines under the stairs, the decade-old cans of beans, countless things my dad should’ve thrown out long ago. I should have thrown them out when I’d inherited the place, but I had also inherited his laziness, his facility for doing whatever was most desirable at the moment and hoping that conditions would somehow change before it became absolutely...

A Christmas up North

A
by Anita Lobel

“It’s a miracle,” laughed my very Jewish daughter-in-law, when I called. “It’s a real, fucking Christmas miracle. Do you like it?” I hadn’t even opened the box when I rushed for my new phone. “Whatever it is I will love it,” I cried.

Jackalopes

J
by Kathryn V. Jacopi

Trevor hated them, normal people who didn’t have staff telling them when to shit and clean the toilet. Neuro-typical idiots with their secret club, handshake and rules.

Love’s Garden

L
By Alexandra Bowie

One day she started talking about reincarnation. That was interesting, because most people in our town went to one of the big evangelical churches whose parking lots took up almost as much space as the farms they’d replaced, and I figured Mary did too...

Ascension

A
By Susan Buttenwieser

The woman in the toy store said the kite would be easy to fly. Sonny has his daughter hold the string while he tries to get it airborne. But the kite is flimsy and the wind ripping off the water batters it onto the sand. He tosses it again and again, and each time, it torpedoes straight down...

IN THE ROCK GARDEN / LURIE

I
By Marge Lurie

Maybe I was wrong, but I thought I knew what he meant. At a certain point,

you're old enough that it does all count. You've put your time in, one way or

another, and it has led you to where you are. The path you took might have

led you somewhere else entirely; and different paths might have led to where

you are. But, for better or worse, your path was your path.

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