Archive for January, 2015

Broken Kilometer by Jody Falco

Jan 23 2015 Published by under Stories

Unfortunately, for me, that one gesture clarified the situation. We were on West Broadway and Broome, crossing north.  I reached up and straightened the collar of his blue coat. Without a word, I knew. I knew as soon as he reached his hand up and put the crease back in that collar.

I knew I was this white girl who wanted too much, was too married, and wore her skirts too long. And that he was a black man with youth and beauty, the hands of an aristocrat, and standards.

I knew then that’s who we were and who we’d always be.

The gulf widened and we were both swallowed up.

Jody Falco is a writer living and working in New York City.

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Die Here by Natasha Arnold

Jan 10 2015 Published by under Stories

I want to die under Glencar Waterfall. My parents are taking pictures of it while my Grandpa starts telling us some fairy tale about a family of sidhe that haunt the waterfall behind the veil of their plane of existence and I want so badly to dive off the rising walkway. Onto the rocks. Crush my skull. Let the falling flow batter what’s left of me to meatshreds. I do not want to leave a beautiful corpse. There is no such thing.

“They say if you squint at the water, you can see the faces of the fairies,” Grandpa says.

Every word I have to listen to exhausts me more and more. I feel like I can barely stand by the time I ask him, “What even are fairies?” and before I finish asking, I wish I had no mouth.

Grandpa says, “They’re many things. Might be magic, might be spirits. Might be both.”

“So they’re ghosts,” I say. I’m thinking my parents either can’t hear or don’t care. I am always thinking this.

“They could be,” Grandpa replies.

So I straighten myself. All over, my body goes rigid. In the waterfall I look for faces, and I imagine someone, someday, gazing into it as well and making out the foam-white impression of my face. They call me a magic spirit. They don’t know anything about the beaten wisps of tissue I left behind, years or decades or centuries earlier. I bet my parents are looking at old suicides as they snap away at the image of the fall.

Grandpa takes a breath of the forest air and says, “It’s so peaceful here.”

And it is, I agree.

Natasha Arnold is a third-year student in Old Dominion University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Her work has been featured in Oblong Magazine, and will be featured in The New Guard’s fourth volume as a Machigonne Fiction Contest finalist. She currently lives in Norfolk, Virginia.

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