Fiction

Clouds in the Street Contrary Magazine – Finalist for Short Story Award for New Writers in Glimmer Train

This medina, maybe it’s not so special, but it’s mine. I’ve seen the dust rise from my brother’s running kicks and the broom-swept clouds of my mother’s strength gather in the street’s breeze and settle in a slow, thin sheath over the pathways and the courtyards of this village. I know this place like the soul of a friend. I know the fire-colored mountains from which these rocks were taken—the rocks that built the streets, the walls, the gates. I know the lava-like settling of the mortar between the stones, and these fingers have run across its rises and dips each twenty years of my life. Hundreds of stones I know. . .

Punk Shows Are Like That Hypertext

Punk shows are like that. The guys that you know just well enough to fear are all in the crowd. They’re the hookups, the ones with the weed and the acid. They rage just a few feet away, circle jerking, moshing, shoving strangers, elbowing dudes in the face. You are in awe of them. You couldn’t get in there and do that. Here’s where your women’s lib stuff breaks down. Here’s where you feel the raw strength of men, and you feel, even though you are wearing baggy jeans, a loose Tshirt and not one fucking speck of makeup, here’s where you feel that, yes, they are more powerful than you. Yes, you’re a pussy, and there’s no getting around it. . .

Vladko!Hair Trigger 31

Look, I’m not saying there aren’t glitches.  I mean, we barely speak the same language.  But in some ways, meaningful ways, our communication is flawless. Like in his dark bedroom.  He whispers into my ear, “Illipota, Illipota,” which he says is Macedonian for “Beautiful,” then he stretches my arms out above my head and holds them there.  I close my eyes and feel his hot face against mine.  My hands search his tan, lean body as he kisses me playfully and hard.  Then his lips are at my earlobes, where he bites harder than any American boyfriend ever did. . .