short stories

“Faith By Any Means Necessary” by Brannon O’Brennan

NEW SHORT FICTION

Father surveyed the garage. It belonged to his neighbor, the hippie who never locked anything and was away on a “Vision-something or other.” He scanned slowly left to right, then right to left, as an expression of forlorn resolve settled slowly onto his face. He took off an unkissed crucifix and shelved it between an ancient can of paint and a small wine press.

He made sure that there were no gaps around the garage door and put towels at the base of it to ensure there would be no leakage. He held a pint of sweet liquor he found in his neighbor’s freezer. As it thawed, an ice-cold tear drop ran down from the neck to his hand. He got in and started his neighbor’s car, choked down the pint and a handful of Ambien.

When he woke he smelled his former internal acids mixed with the sweet liquor, now rorschached all over his frock. He was not in heaven or hell, but the purgatory of a dreamer’s garage. The first miracle of his seventy years and a sign that the connection had been restored.

He shut off the Tesla, collected the towels and went back to his house.

Brannon O’Brennan lives in Northern Virginia, USA. His work has been published in Isele Magazine, Cinnabar Moth Literary Collections, and in The George Washington University Press. His literary fiction short story “Symbiosis” was published in Secant Publishing’s anthology titled “Best Stories on the Human Impact of Climate Change” and that story was nominated for the Secant Publishing Prize. He’s also have published a short story collection through Alien Buddha Press.

An Excerpt from “The Ghost of Camp Hero” by Shelby Raebeck

NEW FICTION

Basketball basketball basketball. We sit in class all day thinking about it, then practice for two hours or maybe have a game, and drive home talking shit about who busted who, and I drop ’em both, Higgins and Sonny, in a fucking trailer park. And though my father’s life insurance got us a house—split level ranch in the center of Freetown—the place was too big for us to heat, half the rooms sealed closed with plastic. Every day same as the one before, until Coach comes up to me after practice and asks if everything’s okay and I say Sure, why wouldn’t it be? And he says, You’re not playing like yourself, keep it up and you won’t get a scholarship, and I shrug my shoulders, thinking, Fuck a scholarship, and take Higgins and Sonny home to the trailer park and go driving.

It’s another of those cold gray East End days when I pull up to the first beach, Maidstone, only half mile or so from home, and see this figure standing out at the end of the jetty that sticks into the harbor, wearing this purple hat and scarf. On days like that everything blurs into gray – water, land, sky—except now there’s these two soft spots of color. Then the figure holds its hands out to the side and turns slowly in a circle, and I realize it’s Joany. She spins again and I can barely make out her mouth is moving. I roll down my window but the wind is whipping in off the water too loud to hear anything, yet I see the headphones poking out beneath her hat and her mouth opening and closing like she’s singing. Hasn’t said a word to anybody in almost a year and she’s standing out there on the jetty singing.

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

An Excerpt from “An Overcoat” by Tony Covatta

NEW FICTION ALERT

The dinner went well enough. The jokes were good. The wines delicious. Gino sprang for the check, to the gracious thanks of Bentley and Wayne. They had outstayed the rest of the clientele. Most of the waitstaff had disappeared. The party rose unsteadily from their table and searched for the alcove where their overcoats were hung hours earlier. Gino quickly counted five dark-grey and black coats but saw nothing butterscotch brown. Bentley’s coat was missing. The sole remaining waiter, young and inexperienced, offered only feeble excuses. Bentley’s satisfied air disappeared, his brow darkened. Gino, doing his best to lighten the mood and save the situation, told him he would look into the matter. “I’ll take care of it.”

Next morning, his car parked in the firm’s lot, seated at his shiny wood and steel firm desk, drinking firm coffee, munching a firm bagel, Gino’s calls to the Firehouse’s floor captain, manager and owner yielded no trace of camelhair or overcoat. Determined Gino was discouraged but not defeated, when Trey Headley stuck his bald pate in his office door: “Gino, we’ve got an angry architect on our hands. He says you and your friends encouraged him to leave his overcoat in an unlocked closet at that ginmill you went to, and it was stolen. He’s not happy.”

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

An Excerpt from “And the Angels Sing” by Joe Del Castillo

A SNEAK PREVIEW OF NEW POP LIT’S NEXT FEATURE

“Do you remember?” I continued, “I was into the Beatles and all the British Invasion groups that were out then, but you never cared for them. It was difficult for me to understand that you could not see what I saw in those performers. You talked about Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and the like. You insisted that I listen to their music and gain an appreciation for their artistry. I felt I knew them well enough since they were who mom and dad listened to. I now had my own stars and their songs dominated my head. Of course, I was sixteen, so I thought my opinions mattered more. I wanted you to understand what ‘my’ singers were talking about. If your favorites sang about love, mine sang about love, but also civil rights and injustice. Wasn’t that more important?”

Coming Soon!