dreamszilla

Sara Corris's story evokes Philip Larkin: "They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do." “Do you remember the last thing he said?” “I’m tired of living like this.” The officer thanked her and sent her home. Two o’clock in the morning, and no one was asleep. From Mark’s bathroom: “BAGEL, NO! NO! Goddammit!” From Sadie’s bedroom: “Dad, shut the fuck up! Some of us are trying to sleep!” From Sam and Mark’s bedroom: “Sadie, don’t speak to your father that way. Mark, stop yelling at the cat like a goddamn idiot.” From Matthew’s bedroom: “Mommeeee, daddeeeee, why is evwybody yelling?” Mark stormed out of his bathroom and nearly collided with Sam, carrying Matthew in her arms. “Jesus, Mark -” “He did it again, your cat! I stood there and watched as Bagel got inside his litterbox, pawed around, then got out of his litterbox and shh - and pooped on the floor right next to the litterbox.” Cackling, from Sadie’s room. “...

via American Short Fiction https://americanshortfiction.org/introducing-%e2%80%8b%e2%80%8bstory-menagerie-literary-postcards-by-edward-carey/

Two foster children, Autumn and Becca, return from an educational trip to Auschwitz carrying very different lessons; by Anne Goodwin. We’d agreed not to mention the press conference until the plane was on the ground. We couldn’t predict what they’d do if they got overexcited. As it was, the girls abandoned us at the luggage carousel and rushed off to the toilets to reapply their make-up. All except Becca who leant against the wall with that same scornful sneer she’d worn the entire week; indeed, the entire time she’d been on my caseload. Jack shot me a sympathetic glance as suitcases paraded on the belt before us. Of course I was disappointed, but nine out of ten wasn’t bad. The foster mothers waved as we emerged from the Nothing to Declare channel. I’d been worried one of the boys might be singled out for inspection – with their unlaced trainers and low-slung jeans they had the capacity to look shifty even when politely holding open a door – but we were waved through. Not that I ...

Julie's life takes an unexpected course when her father shelters a charismatic stranger; by Gary Ives. Late one windy Nebraskan April afternoon in 1970, when I was 17, my father's tractor came slowly up our lane pulling an old Plymouth station wagon at the end of a muddy chain. Behind the steering wheel was a little old man with white hair wearing very thick glasses. The car had died at the bottom of the hill just where our lane meets County Road 12. My dad called me over to help push him alongside our barn, the old man steering at dad's directions. Dad helped him to gently slide out from the car seat then took an arm, walking him up to the house. I had not an inkling of the effect this old man would have on my future. "Julie, put the tractor in the barn; there's heavy weather coming tonight. Sir, come on up to the house with me, please," my dad said. In the kitchen my mother put a kettle on, then showed Mr. Quick to the bathroom. "Julie, go upstai...

Justin Miller's despised father passes away, leaving behind a surprising legacy; by Clive Aaron Gill. I hated my father, Ethan Miller. As a youth, I feared his repeated clouts to my head, followed by days of silence. He told me he had experienced the same discipline from his dad. When I saw other fathers shooting baskets with their sons or throwing a football to each other, jealousy clung to my heart like a dark stain. I often wondered if Dad was my biological father. One evening, while I showered, he shouted at me for misbehaving, his face crimson. He slapped my face, and my head struck the side of the shower. Blood spurted. He paled, put a towel to my head and helped me dress. In his car on the way to the Emergency Room, he said, "Tell the doctor you slipped and fell." If I didn't do as he asked, he'd say his anger was my fault and he'd punish me for telling. I fantasized strangling him with a rope. He'd struggle for air. I'd tighten the rope ...

In 1960s middle America, two young school boys plot revenge against their cruel teacher; by Harrison Kim. Fall, 1964, and eleven-year-old Salmon River boys Ken Lee and Stan Harlan discussed the Beatles outside their school. Ken's family didn't have TV, but he'd watched the mop tops and heard the girl screams on the Harlan's set. He wanted more than anything to learn to play guitar. The two boys waited together for the bus. Their teacher, Mrs. Sater, tasked them with watching the Grade Ones, making sure the kids didn't run out onto the road. The little kids stood under a gnarled willow tree. A thunderclap crashed. The kids all screamed like Beatles girls. "Those Beatles can sing," said Stan, "if you can hear them over the shouting." "We could learn to play," said Ken, "and be popular." "How do you play a guitar?" Stan asked. Ken dashed up to the road and back, moving his hands and arms in John Lennon fash...