Fiction Archive

October 2017
For thirty-two years we have championed the fine art of fiction. Linden Frederick’s new project is a mash-up of fiction illustrating fine art.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

Novel Graphics

October 2017
For thirty-two years we have championed the fine art of fiction. Linden Frederick’s new project is a mash-up of fiction illustrating fine art.






September 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By Michael Kimball The town of York, Maine, claims two notorious characters from its past: Patience Boston and Reverend Joseph Moody. […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

Patience Boston

September 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By Michael Kimball The town of York, Maine, claims two notorious characters from its past: Patience Boston and Reverend Joseph Moody. […]

July/August 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By Frederick Sargent Growing up, I always wondered what it would be like to have “cool parents.” I knew with a […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

Surf Lung One

July/August 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By Frederick Sargent Growing up, I always wondered what it would be like to have “cool parents.” I knew with a […]

Summerguide 2017 | view this story as a .pdf Shaggy-dog story \ sha-gē-’dȯg ‘stȯr-ē\ n: of, relating to, or being a similar humorous story characterized by digression whose humor lies […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

A Shaggy Dog

Summerguide 2017 | view this story as a .pdf Shaggy-dog story \ sha-gē-’dȯg ‘stȯr-ē\ n: of, relating to, or being a similar humorous story characterized by digression whose humor lies […]

May 2017
"Call 911. I think I’m going to kill someone.”<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Post Traumatic

May 2017
“Call 911. I think I’m going to kill someone.”






April 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By William Hall Richard had never broken the law, not even a speeding ticket, but opening the door to his home–still […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

Pickpocket

April 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By William Hall Richard had never broken the law, not even a speeding ticket, but opening the door to his home–still […]

February/March 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By John Manderino Are you going to wear that?” Jill asked, brushing her hair, looking at Bob in her dressing table […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

The Shirt

February/March 2017 | view this story as a .pdf By John Manderino Are you going to wear that?” Jill asked, brushing her hair, looking at Bob in her dressing table […]

Winterguide 2017
I was 22 when my girlfriend started noticing my hearing problem.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Why I Hate the Promenade

Winterguide 2017
I was 22 when my girlfriend started noticing my hearing problem.






December 2016
Voila!” He presented the bouquet of red carnations with a flourish.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Parlor Tricks 

December 2016
Voila!” He presented the bouquet of red carnations with a flourish.






The floor drain between my legs was underneath a layer of ice. Craig and I had broken into an abandoned building on the darker edge of what may have been Skowhegan, and we decided to rest a while instead of continuing on in darkness. <!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Snow Birds

The floor drain between my legs was underneath a layer of ice. Craig and I had broken into an abandoned building on the darker edge of what may have been Skowhegan, and we decided to rest a while instead of continuing on in darkness.






We’d been playing pretend for almost a year and he still wouldn’t go back to his life. Meade wouldn’t acknowledge he had another life at all, though he’d bring me into it in ways, mentioning how Cole seemed to like me, driving me by the horse farm where he and Cole and his wife had lived before the great domestic unraveling commenced and she moved out to Deer Isle.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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St. Anthony’s

We’d been playing pretend for almost a year and he still wouldn’t go back to his life. Meade wouldn’t acknowledge he had another life at all, though he’d bring me into it in ways, mentioning how Cole seemed to like me, driving me by the horse farm where he and Cole and his wife had lived before the great domestic unraveling commenced and she moved out to Deer Isle.






This is an excerpt from The Sadness, Benjamin Rybeck’s first novel. Rybeck is the marketing director at Brazos Bookstore in Houston, Texas. He holds an M.F.A. from the University of Arizona. His work has appeared in Kirkus Reviews, Electric Literature, The Rumpus, and Literary Hub, among others. He lives in Houston, TX.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Long Shot

This is an excerpt from The Sadness, Benjamin Rybeck’s first novel. Rybeck is the marketing director at Brazos Bookstore in Houston, Texas. He holds an M.F.A. from the University of Arizona. His work has appeared in Kirkus Reviews, Electric Literature, The Rumpus, and Literary Hub, among others. He lives in Houston, TX.






I breathe. “We’ve looked at houses in Kennebunk for six months.” I speak slowly, as if to a child. “Nothing is perfect. Or we can’t afford it. Our current home is old, lots of character. It’s our first house. We’ve been there for 24 years. Our children were born there.”<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Coping Mechanism

I breathe. “We’ve looked at houses in Kennebunk for six months.” I speak slowly, as if to a child. “Nothing is perfect. Or we can’t afford it. Our current home is old, lots of character. It’s our first house. We’ve been there for 24 years. Our children were born there.”






He was ten yards behind her when she heard him. In the cutaway on the back of her bathing suit he saw a braid of muscle tighten. He stopped and she turned to him, eyebrows arching as if only curious, her right hand moving in the L.L. Bean canvas bag hooked on her shoulder.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Perhaps You Can’t Help Yourself

He was ten yards behind her when she heard him. In the cutaway on the back of her bathing suit he saw a braid of muscle tighten. He stopped and she turned to him, eyebrows arching as if only curious, her right hand moving in the L.L. Bean canvas bag hooked on her shoulder.






The shop lady explained that the little shepherd girl was in fact Bo Peep and that there wasn’t any mention of a shepherd boy in the rhyme, was there? And she even began to recite: “Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep–”<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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The Thing Carol Saw

The shop lady explained that the little shepherd girl was in fact Bo Peep and that there wasn’t any mention of a shepherd boy in the rhyme, was there? And she even began to recite: “Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep–”






He docked that frigid morning as a fog bank settled along the eastern reaches of Casco Bay.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Sea Change

He docked that frigid morning as a fog bank settled along the eastern reaches of Casco Bay.






Winterguide 2016 By Joan Connor We sit and drink, two good friends, in our forties now. We usually drink on Fridays after my husband has left our summer cottage on […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

Island Universe*

Winterguide 2016 By Joan Connor We sit and drink, two good friends, in our forties now. We usually drink on Fridays after my husband has left our summer cottage on […]

I began to collect books as soon as I could read, and I enjoyed reading so much I very early decided I wanted to be a writer, to my parents’ sorrow, for they wanted me to be a preacher like my father.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Shelf-Life

I began to collect books as soon as I could read, and I enjoyed reading so much I very early decided I wanted to be a writer, to my parents’ sorrow, for they wanted me to be a preacher like my father.






Walter Rhodes watched a man get out of a trumpet-orange rag-top Jeep in the hayfield in front of his farmhouse. The engine-idling bass drum kicked one-two, one-two, one-two… Wind blasted the old man as he drew near, with muscular tan legs sticking out of khaki shorts, biceps pushing at the short sleeves of a faded red T-shirt. The guy had to be in his 70s, carrying a magazine in his right hand, walking toward Walter’s screen door with a side-to-side gait that said I don’t fall or stumble. Sea legs.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Lost Dogs

Walter Rhodes watched a man get out of a trumpet-orange rag-top Jeep in the hayfield in front of his farmhouse. The engine-idling bass drum kicked one-two, one-two, one-two… Wind blasted the old man as he drew near, with muscular tan legs sticking out of khaki shorts, biceps pushing at the short sleeves of a faded red T-shirt. The guy had to be in his 70s, carrying a magazine in his right hand, walking toward Walter’s screen door with a side-to-side gait that said I don’t fall or stumble. Sea legs.






My father died this year. No one who knew us would have said we were close. He and my mother divorced thirty years ago, shortly after I had left our New Jersey home to pursue my life. Not long after that he remarried suddenly and settled in a small coastal town in Maine to restart his own life. <!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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An Open Invitation

My father died this year. No one who knew us would have said we were close. He and my mother divorced thirty years ago, shortly after I had left our New Jersey home to pursue my life. Not long after that he remarried suddenly and settled in a small coastal town in Maine to restart his own life.






This is chapter one of Brian Daly’s Toil & Trouble, a novel about “a high-school sophomore who thinks he’s put the Macbeth Curse on his school’s production of ‘The Scottish Play.’ He’s the author of Big and Hairy, a middle grade novel. He also wrote the screenplay adaptation of that book for a Showtime Original  Feature starring Richard Thomas. Look for a staged reading of Brian’s new musical comedy Come Out Swingin’! at the Lyric Music Theater on October 2. <!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Toil & Trouble

This is chapter one of Brian Daly’s Toil & Trouble, a novel about “a high-school sophomore who thinks he’s put the Macbeth Curse on his school’s production of ‘The Scottish Play.’ He’s the author of Big and Hairy, a middle grade novel. He also wrote the screenplay adaptation of that book for a Showtime Original Feature starring Richard Thomas. Look for a staged reading of Brian’s new musical comedy Come Out Swingin’! at the Lyric Music Theater on October 2.






He was a wraith, he was real, and out there is a cluster of people who can recall him. He would materialize unexpectedly out of nothing, a loping Civil War refugee with his bedraggled troops strung in a line behind him. <!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Remember ‘The Dog Man’?

He was a wraith, he was real, and out there is a cluster of people who can recall him. He would materialize unexpectedly out of nothing, a loping Civil War refugee with his bedraggled troops strung in a line behind him.






I ran from Large Print as quietly as I could. Thankfully, a line at Circulation started buzzing as I got to Reference. Surreptitiously extracting my mobile, I pushed the answer button as I strolled with imaginary purpose to non-fiction.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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The Difference Between

I ran from Large Print as quietly as I could. Thankfully, a line at Circulation started buzzing as I got to Reference. Surreptitiously extracting my mobile, I pushed the answer button as I strolled with imaginary purpose to non-fiction.






Peter Ross Perkins and I met in 1953 in New York to serve aboard the U.S.S. Hornet, the eighth ship to bear that name. She’d been launched 10 months after the seventh Hornet was sunk in World War II, but she, too, had seen much action in the war. Now, recalled from retirement, she was ready to serve during and after the Korean War. She was to be launched in all her renewed glory from Brooklyn Naval Shipyard.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Horneteers

Peter Ross Perkins and I met in 1953 in New York to serve aboard the U.S.S. Hornet, the eighth ship to bear that name. She’d been launched 10 months after the seventh Hornet was sunk in World War II, but she, too, had seen much action in the war. Now, recalled from retirement, she was ready to serve during and after the Korean War. She was to be launched in all her renewed glory from Brooklyn Naval Shipyard.






Jimmy, an old friend of her husband’s, showed up with a goat in the back of his truck and his arms crossed under his ridiculous mustache. The goat, he explained, had shown up at his job site near Robinhood Cove. <!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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Goat

Jimmy, an old friend of her husband’s, showed up with a goat in the back of his truck and his arms crossed under his ridiculous mustache. The goat, he explained, had shown up at his job site near Robinhood Cove.






Through a wall of window hazed by breath and sweat, I watch floodlights on the ski lift towers convert falling snowflakes into orange embers. The trails are ribbed like children’s corduroy and the green shadows of the woods fan out before the roving headlights of the groomers. It is a scene designed to incite desire. And like all calls to physical passion recklessly luxurious.<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->
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First Love

Through a wall of window hazed by breath and sweat, I watch floodlights on the ski lift towers convert falling snowflakes into orange embers. The trails are ribbed like children’s corduroy and the green shadows of the woods fan out before the roving headlights of the groomers. It is a scene designed to incite desire. And like all calls to physical passion recklessly luxurious.






View full story as a PDF Fiction By Barbara F. Lefcowitz I‘ve never told a soul before: you, reader, are the first to know that for over 25 years I, […]<!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below --><!-- AddThis Sharing Buttons below -->

The Pink Suit

View full story as a PDF Fiction By Barbara F. Lefcowitz I‘ve never told a soul before: you, reader, are the first to know that for over 25 years I, […]