Flash Fiction
Trophy
This prized fish on the wall in our suburban split-level is a rainbow trout, an identification I know because my husband made a point of telling me this, more than once, when he brought the fish home from the lake. … Continue reading
The Pointer
“The Pointer” received the 2nd annual Bevel Summers Prize for the Short Short Story. Swallows fly in and out the broken windows of a V-12 silvered by weather, our great-grandfather’s ancient Sunday cruising sedan. We’re sitting on the hoods of … Continue reading
“I am holding onto the gut.”
wetatuhneesáhUt. I am holding onto the gut. Wah. Once they were accepted they were allowed inside—White men. D. D. Mitchell, Indian Agent, among them. They sent a boy. The Arikara men. Bear Medicine Men, their society. They sent him. Words, … Continue reading
Her Last Boy
Let me tell you bout my boy, she says, the way they do, the gnarled walnut knuckles working like the gnarled walnut of their cheeks swollen with that pride that slows her speech from the gallop it also wants her … Continue reading
Ode to Girl with Hand on Barbed Wire
Somewhere between McCook and the grid of rural routes she had traveled to reach the farm, Letty had applied a coat of lipstick. She liked to drive with the window down, her hand pressed flat against the wind. Now her … Continue reading
The Ice River History Museum, Formerly Saint Catherine’s Convent
Hollmeyer_IceRiverHistoryMuseum Dot hobbled along with her walker, making apologies for moving slow since her fall. The docent asked what happened, and she explained about the dark cat in the dark hallway. Then she pointed at his ankle and asked him … Continue reading
Goran Holds His Breath
Althouse: Goran Holds His Breath The birds on the water have not heard him yet. Once they do they will burst upwards in flight and he will press the trigger. A gaggle of nine geese, necks huddled, drifts near the … Continue reading
Permian Flats
“Permian Flats” was runner-up in the 2nd annual Bevel Summers Prize for the Short Story. It had taken them three days to find the Spragg boy. A migrant worker heading to Permian Flats had found the abandoned truck out … Continue reading
Translator
In the ninth summer of the conflict, I was hired as a translator for a foreign officer. My wife was furious. For days, she refused to speak to me other than mumbling That man is the devil even though she’d … Continue reading