Every year about this time, the staff gears up for what we call the Annual Fiction Issue. How long, we ask, are we going to continue relating the year to the number of words in the stories? Eventually, the short stories are going to be novels. Should we offer a theme? In the end, tradition always wins out, and we ask our readers to take us where their flights of fancy take them. This year, it seems our readers took a turn to the light-hearted with stories of escape, dreams and—what else?—love. Anyway, kick back, pour yourself a nice tall glass of tea and dive in.
1. Fugitive
At first, it was a flight of fancy. “One night, I’ll pack up and leave. Disappear.” But in the rollercoaster of her mind, the idea would reappear at the curves and loops like a taunting child. Soon she was looking for destinations; then, opportunities; then, miraculously, one became the other.
A Caribbean ferry and a shipwreck. “Dive deep and swim fast,” she’d been warned. “Locals can’t swim, and they’ll drag you down.” She swam, to the island. Not deserted. He let her eat, sleep in the sun. She helped care for the small house and children. He taught her Spanish. She stayed.
—Maija Talso
2. The Flowers
He appeared at the doorway with a bouquet, betrayed by its grocery store wrapping, hoping for reconciliation. The children, save the baby who gurgled gleefully, looked across their plates at each other in silence as she took the proffered flowers to the sink, flicked on the disposal and fed the daffodils, carnations and baby’s breath into its grinding maw.
“Finish your dinner,” she told them.
He slept in the baby’s room the next four nights. Afterwards, most evenings she could be found alone deep in her books and papers in the quiet room.
From that time on, they were different.
—Daniel Burk
3. The Secret of Jam
They will find it. They will pry their stubby fingernails into the wax seal beneath the leaf-embossed jacket. The seal will pop, and the jar will pressurize, inhaling the humid cellar air. The glass will sweat. The jar will exhale its secrets in a steady sssssssigh. It will fall to the cement floor and sulfur the air, smelling like shit and lilac, like electricity and the ocean. It will make their noses bubble and melt from their bony frames.
You close your eyes. And you dream of her, as your skin looses tension and slips from your bones.
—Joseph Moulian
4. Pirates
The Opal drew alongside the Vincetta, and a final round of grapeshot peppered the decks of the merchant ship before the boarding lines went out. Of course, since the Vincetta veritably wallowed through the seas, the chase had been no challenge. Scrat checked the cutlass and, pistol thrust through his sash, peg leg clunking, he hurried to the rail. No leg, not from the knee down, but he fought like a cornered weasel, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it.
“Th’ end of th’ line,” he muttered, and, guts clenching, he dove into the fray with his dagger between his teeth.
—Jessica Ellis
5. All You Have
He was married, happily, but every night he dreamt of this woman. Behind closed eyes, in supernaturally sweet ether, they had fantastic adventures—like sharing a sleeping bag on a mountain summit or sneaking out of Cuba on a bread truck. He didn’t know her name, but she had moody blue-black hair, and her smile caused an outburst inside him that made it hurt to awake.
One night, she whispered where to meet her.
He waited, drinking coffee at the all-night cafe.
Nobody came.
Sunrise, he fell asleep at the counter. He slept good and deep, but didn’t dream.
—Peter Sherrow
6. Paradise
He opened his eyes to see the girl of his dreams standing over him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. You looked familiar and I was trying …”
“No! I mean, it’s no bother. You know, you do look familiar.”
She lay face down on the chaise next to his and reached behind her to untie her bikini top.
“Would you mind? I’ve got some oil in my bag.”
He reached down to find the bottle when he heard, “Stand up. Stand up.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Opening his eyes, he found himself sitting in church.
Damn daydreams.
—Mark Warneke
7. The Writer
He had written a great book, but that was years ago. Paralyzed by his success, the writer’s block had grown and grown and left him bed-bound and psychotic. If he couldn’t write, he didn’t want to live any more.
He had a pistol—a Colt Defender, just like a character in his book. Lightweight with a wrap-around grip … never used. Carefully, he chambered one bullet, then lay it at his side. Pillows propped behind him, he grabbed a pen from the nightstand and began to compose the suicide note.
Nothing.
He tore up the paper.
Damn writer’s block.
—Kurt Karlisle
8. Heather’s Dream
Heather dreamed my head was an enormous green grape.
“Why do you have a grape on your head?” she asked.
“The grape is my head,” I said, although I had no mouth, just a face of smooth fruit skin.
She said, “It can’t be,” and reached up to tug on the grape, yanking my head off.
Bright yellow blood, infested with ugly black insects, gushed from my neck. And I mean gushed. Quickly the world flooded with yellow bug-filled liquid. My decapitated body disappeared in the muck. Waves swept Heather away. She used my grape head as a flotation device.
—Andrew Bourelle
Maija Talso is former executive director of the Theater Coalition. Ironically and suspiciously, she is currently on a Caribbean island studying Spanish. We don’t want to read too much into that, though. <br>
Photo by David Robert
9. Sunday, 1 a.m.
Her lover emerges naked and thirsty from the tangle of their bed, and stumbles through darkness into the kitchen. She imagines him opening the refrigerator, his rugged face illuminated by solitary light as he peers inside. The whir of the fan blows strands of hair across her shoulders. He returns, his silent silhouette pausing in the doorway before raising the glass in her honor. She opens the sheets to him and he crawls in alongside, sliding hands over skin. She leans back to accept his embrace, the slick meeting of their tongues a form of communion.
—Amy Roby
10. Fetch
Would you think less of me if I told you I pray to my dead dog Leroy and he answers? No Jesus-size miracles, more like small favors. The first time was the night he died. I’m thinking, “I miss Leroy.” There he was, underfoot, like always. Last week, I ran out of gas on the freeway. “Leroy, I’m stranded.” Poof! Full tank and Leroy on the car seat next to me, wagging his tail. Then today, I thought, “I’m lonely. I need a new boyfriend.” Suddenly, you collapsed in my arms on the sidewalk, bleeding from a mysterious bite on your leg.
—Sheila Gardner
Honorable Mentions
(in no particular order)
Day 72
Throwing off the flattened boxes, Beatrice slowly sat up. She put on the faded brown and scuffed boots, tying them with thin, frayed laces. Vibrations from trucks passing overhead rolled down her right arm from the rusty pipe that she had grabbed to pull herself up. Beatrice fought past the sharp, stinging pain in her right knee and struggled up the steep embankment, leaving behind the pungent stench of aged human urine and feces. Trying to keep her right leg straight, she slowly, methodically, walked the 2,457 steps to her spot at the interstate’s onramp.
Another day had begun for Beatrice.
—Robert Reuss
Runs in the Family
“Careful,” he tells me. “Don’t throw all your arm into it. Just gentle. Flick your wrist. Watch out for the sprinklers—they don’t want it wet. Don’t throw hard enough to smack the side of the house.”
My dad knows how to throw a newspaper. So did his dad and all his brothers and sisters. They started as soon as they were big enough and used the money for food.
They have plenty of food now, but they still throw papers, and now I do, too. I guess newspaper circulation is in our blood.
—Christy Chamberlain
Relationships
When I first met my partner, he was quite fabulous but rich. I was forced to break into society. My prerequisite was an etiquette college to elevate my level of class. I lived with the subtle treachery of stuffy, snotty ridged puffs and their torturous leisure world. He really loved me until that day we went over to some duke’s castle for dinner, and I pooped on some priceless tapestry. I begged for some crumpet of understanding.
“No,” he said. “Get your shit and get out.”
I gathered my balls, bowl and Frisbees to go and wondered why the big stink.
—Kathleen “K.C.” Campbell
How It Really Happened
Dear Editor,
I’m going to tell you how it really happened.
I won’t tell you about graduation. It went fine, but you won’t care.
The three positions after graduation? Sucked! Lost them all!
So I’m reading the want ads. See this columnist, Bruce Van Something, rambling about the “Real Nevada.”
I wander out there. Find the “Enlightened One.” We hang out. It’s COOL. We talk, watch sunsets, commune with Nature, find PEACE. None of that psycho shit, this is serious “one on one.”
So I ask, “Can I share this?”
“Absolutely.”
But it takes more than 103 words to …
—Jacque Vache
Sunrises
Elbarise was spectacular—purplish-yellow clouds suspended above the ancient spires of the Reptanoe mountains. Tobarise, 20 minutes later, east of Elba, delicately pierced the thin clouds of red and orange hues. Gukhan, elated with the beauty from the first two, kissed his asleep mate, Detee, and began the two-mile hike to the viewpoint.
The largest of the three suns, Fuba, was Gukhan’s favorite, today visible for two hours, most days less than one. Accompanying the unique lengthy sunrise were mature flying Sarpos.
On beautiful mornings like today, Gukhan often wondered, “Are there species on other planets enjoying sunrises?”
—Keith Richardville
A Moment
Pause: Green eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, me. Green whimpered. Blue peed himself, Brown stayed stalwart. I passed out. From the 23rd floor, just a few seconds left till splat, so Green had better wrap up her prayer. The smell of Blue’s urine hasn’t had time to pervade the claustrophobic chamber, but I can imagine the acrid, pungent scent burrowing itself into my dead nose. But Brown must be Buddhist, his eyes shut, still standing, arms folded. Not a sound from Brown. No sound from me, either—unconscious, crumpled on the floor. And all this in a falling elevator.
Unpause: “Shit.”
—Patrick A. Woodard
The Last Stop
The green-eyed secretary/dancer boarded the train in Boston. The shit kicker from Texas boarded in Philadephia.
“You like trains?” he asked.
“Buses smell.” She smiled demurely.
Passing through Pittsburg, he held her.
In Dayton, she kissed him.
They got a compartment in Indianapolis.
The monotony of the Missouri alfalfa fields brought second thoughts.
In Kansas, he asked, “Why not?”
As resolute as the Colorado Rockies, she asked, “Why?”
Answers were found in the desert of Nevada.
Dan Burk is Washoe County Registrar of Voters. He says he comes from a long line of Irish wannabe fiction writers. “I learned to ‘write’ a sentence and paragraph through the efforts of Catholic nuns armed with heavy wooden rulers, and I learned to ‘think’ through the efforts of several fine professors at the University of Northern Colorado, where I earned my M.A. in history.”<br>
Photo by David Robert
“What town is next, conductor?” she inquired.
“Reno.”
Good place to start over, she thought.
“How many miles?”
“Exactly 103.”
—D.C. Haynes
Mary’s Baby
Mary swears she gave birth to a baby girl, but on the way home from the hospital, she notices she’s cradling a boy. She distinctly remembers lots of pink, but then there were all those drugs.
“Dear, I thought we had a daughter,” she later says to her husband.
“We did, and a very pretty one.”
“Beautiful girl.” She can’t help but agree.
“Kelley.”
“Yes. Kelley.” She remembers picking out the name together.
Her husband watches closely as she changes the child’s diaper.
“Girls are such a worry,” he finally says.
“Beautiful boy.” She can’t help but notice.
“Kelley?”
“Yes. Kelley.”
—Kathy Welch
Jesse
Dr. Simms left surgery to break the news.
“The tumor is in a more sensitive area than thought,” he informed the couple. “Jesse will be a paraplegic and require extensive post-op care as well as a life-long reliance on prescription medications. This is already costing you five figures. Do you want us to continue?”
“Do all you can,” they pleaded. “It’s unthinkable for money to be an issue. Jesse is our only baby, he’s our life!”
“Very well, I’ll have another report after surgery.”
Dr. Simms returned to the OR where Jesse was still under sedation, his docked tail limp.
—April Pedersen
All’s Fair
“Baby, that’s not the fight I’m looking for.”
“You wanna brawl in the bar to prove our love?”
“I want creative conflict.”
“You want creative control.”
“I’ve had that for years. I want to meet my match.”
“It’s me.”
“Then paint me into a corner and give me wings.”
“Do you really think we can set our souls on fire in Reno?”
“I do it every day. I just want something bigger.”
“Become an Iraqi ghost. Walk down Virginia carrying your dead child.”
“Show them the human side to war and occupation?”
“I dare you.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’ll be with you.”
—Nathan Gove
Free Drinks
“Hundreds are fine.”
“Quarters.”
Short breaths. Tightness in chest.
Anticipation. Exhilaration.
Joseph Moulian, 26, is a history student at the University of Nevada, Reno, and he also works for a medical supply company. He enjoys rock climbing and other outdoor activities, not to mention making up creative stories about the rotting contents of an unidentified jar found in his grandfather’s basement. <br>
Photo by David Robert
Nice tits. “Heineken, please. I love free drinks.”
Damn smoke. I hate cigarettes.
2 greens. Seven, four.
Double-down. 2 greens. Ten. Yes!
$600.
She’s behind me tonight.
4 greens. Six, Eight.
“Why’d you hit? She has a six.”
Stupid tourist.
$500
4 greens. Jack, ten.
“Insurance?”
F*@#!
$400.
She’s hot.
Move.
3 greens. Nine, six.
Scratch. Ten.
$325.
2 greens. Nine, Nine.
$275.
Toss a green. “Nickels please.”
3 greens. Incentive, 2 red.
Nine, four.
Scratch. Ten.
“Thanks for the bet.”
$190.
7 greens, 3 reds.
King, ten.
$0
—Jason White
The Last Hippie
He died with a smile on his face. But it wasn’t in a Texas whorehouse with his boots on. He took a 10-gauge shotgun blast to his back in a dark alley off Haight Street. Grink had this habit of laughing when he was scared.
Last night, he had hitchhiked from L.A. At a Highway 101 onramp in Santa Barbara, a white station wagon turned the corner almost on two wheels and screeched to a stop. The door flew open.
“Get in!” she yelled. “I have information about the Kennedy assassination.”
It was the summer of love.
—D.C. Haynes
The Memory
Janet filed an ethics complaint against Daniel, her therapist. But she wondered what her true motives were. Jealousy, insecurity or disgust and anger at the bad professional treatment she was getting from him.
After all, Janet realized that Daniel was truly her soul mate. Janet discovered that they were married in a past life, were healers, were lovers, and led a quiet, serene, happy, spiritual life, almost boring, with two children. After Janet met Daniel, and after menopause, marked the first time she ever thought about having children. A reality now that she knows will never happen.
—June Wisniewski
The Interview
She’s late for another interview, but Sandy can’t leave home until she knows the oven is off. Never mind that she despises cooking and hasn’t turned the thing on since moving in. And, oh, God, she needs to be sure she unplugged the iron.
All this checking makes Sandy a bit overwhelmed. She should have gone for the wrinkled look. It was too risky a move. There’s only one way to get through this.
The interview is successful. Sandy lands the job, but not before receiving the following advice from her employer: “You might want to leave your appliances at home.”
—Kathy Welch
The Rush
Pedaling fast and coasting as often as possible, Laura didn’t mind her sister on the bike seat behind her. She had mastered giving rides on her blue Schwinn Barbie bike and was proud to do so.
Her mission was simple. Get to the store. Get the candy. The 50 cents between them would buy just enough sweet to kill the boredom of this summer afternoon.
Could she get there before they got caught? It didn’t really matter. This wasn’t their first infraction, and it wouldn’t be their last. The taste of candy had a price, but always worth the rush.
—Michele Malchow