Stories

Who Among Us Has Not Stepped Through This Door? – Theresa Smith

All of the treatments were, in their own ways, total hells, but the treatment for high-inference psychosis was probably the worst of them. They stick you in this bright little room with lots of windows and an old computer and make you watch a movie. So in the first scene of this movie there’s a man driving a pickup truck full of yellow bricks over a narrow, rickety bridge. The bridge sways and collapses and the truck pitches into the river below.

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Stories

The Cycle of Swords – Ryan Bry

(inspired​ ​by​ ​​Citizen​ ​Kane​)

The​ ​clock​ ​ticked​ ​until​ ​it​ ​fell​ ​off​ ​the​ ​wall.​ ​​ ​We​ ​were​ ​there,​ ​when​ ​it​ ​happened.​ ​​ ​We decided​ ​we​ ​would​ ​be​ ​there​ ​and​ ​we​ ​were​ ​discussing​ ​the​ ​way​ ​that​ ​old​ ​men​ ​exit​ ​their​ ​cars when​ ​we​ ​heard​ ​the​ ​​tick-tick-crash​.​ ​​ ​We​ ​paused​ ​and​ ​then​ ​returned​ ​to​ ​our​ ​discussion,​ ​not bothering​ ​with​ ​the​ ​wounded​ ​keeper​ ​of​ ​time.​ ​​ ​There​ ​was​ ​a​ ​certain​ ​way​ ​that​ ​Jay​ ​Bengrove Parks​ ​got​ ​out​ ​of​ ​his​ ​Mercedes​ ​that​ ​perplexed​ ​us,​ ​his​ ​eyes​ ​still​ ​used​ ​to​ ​the​ ​motion​ ​and​ ​his body​ ​still​ ​used​ ​to​ ​sitting.​ ​​ ​Maybe​ ​some​ ​dicrotic-beated​ ​song​ ​had​ ​played​ ​on​ ​the​ ​radio​ ​and his​ ​essence​ ​keenly​ ​searched​ ​for​ ​new​ ​information.​ ​​ ​New​ ​information.​ ​​ ​That’s​ ​the​ ​point​ ​of it​ ​all,​ ​right?​ ​​ ​Hold​ ​on​ ​.​ ​.​ ​.​ ​point​ ​of​ ​it​ ​all?​ ​​ ​We’re​ ​gonna​ ​have​ ​to​ ​radio​ ​Jim​ ​“No​ ​Plan” Gallagher​ ​on​ ​that​ ​one.

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Stories

Barabbas – Theresa Smith

Barabbas is late. I had a feeling about Barabbas. I have to admit I was seduced by his resume: Herodic palace guard, Oriental astrologer and, here’s the kicker, a speaking role as Pharisee 2 in Matthew 19:7. But here we are, the masses are screaming, the Son of God’s in shackles, Pontius Pilate has to leave at 6:30 – and no Barabbas.

 

From my desk,

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Stories

Little Suamoco – Ted Prokash

I recall my late teens and early twenties as a decidedly dissolute period in my development. My memories of that time are colored in Victorian hues. I spent my days drunk, half undressed, draped over dusty divans in an existential languor . . . with stage direction from Oscar Wilde.

Ha ha! Now you’re in on the joke. Now you have an inkling of the fog of stupidity that has obscured my path in life.

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