Three sixty-something year old intoxicated adult children who had been totally content tossing horseshoes at a protruding metal pole in a square sandbox decided to switch their afternoon sport to kite flying with a giant fighter kite attached to a fancy spool of glass coated hemp line. Maximus was wondering what we were up to and waited for the fun to begin.
The magazine she’s holding is three months old. It shakes lightly. It makes him think of a wounded bird struggling to fight its way out of her white, delicate fingers. He reaches over and places a clammy hand on her exposed thigh. The bruises look like faded tattoos. She recoils almost imperceptibly, more a tensing of her muscles than a move to pull away.
Our top books of the year list is always our most difficult to put together—this is why we’ve never actually had one. When the ballots come in there are always a wealth of wonderful choices, but none that show up on enough lists to confidently rank them together in a top ten. This year we received votes for authors as varied as Nate Graziano, Steven King, and Neil Gaiman.
FLASH FICTIONGone Like the Moonby Erin Parker
“I already heard you say it. You said you want to go and never, ever come back,” she says with disgust. “I can’t believe you would do that to mom.”
The look of disdain on her face scares me. I have made a terrible mistake, and the creeping shame starts spreading.
“No, wait,” I plead. “I don’t want to go, I want to stay here.”
The end of the year is our chance to define our time as it happens, and for critics to choose those works they feel will live on in posterity. Basically, it’s a chance for everyone to look super smart. But each year there are dozens of other works that make up the pop culture landscape which for whatever reason—too commercial, too silly, too “unimportant”, or just too obscure—don’t quite make the cut.
“So I’m thinking to myself—mid conversation with this girl—if you want me to buy you dinner and swing open doors for you, fine. That’s fine. I don’t mind doing that.”
“But isn’t that what you’re bitching about?”
“No, dude. You don’t get what I’m saying. I actually like doing that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She leans out the window to give a sack of burgers and fries to the four guys sitting in a rumbling out of date car–a Charger or Nova–that’s orange, rusty, or naked with primer. Her blonde hair comes loose from behind her ear as she takes the wad of cash from the hairy arm extended through the window.
We met in seventh grade, when you stole my girlfriend, Lisa.
Serena had lived next to Evan in their east Hollywood building for the past two years – ever since her father died. Still, she’d never actually thought about Evan being inside her apartment before. They spent most nights sitting out on their second-floor balconies drinking the beers that Evan supplied, but the only reason he was in her apartment today was because her toilet wouldn’t flush. Serena stood in the doorway, embarrassed for him to open up her toilet while her pee was sitting in there.
The small girl pedaled her tricycle around the abandoned parking lot, little brown legs spinning, imagining herself on an empty road. Her brow wrinkled in determination as she swerved to avoid one of the potholes that littered her racetrack. Short pigtails flew out behind her, one of them starting to unravel as the thin elastic band that held it snapped and dropped to the ground. Crooked bangs stuck to her sweaty forehead as she looked ahead, focused on not running over the broken glass and fast food bags hidden by the tall weeds. She only had a few minutes to ride, the clock ticking as the tobacco smoldered.