Fiction: Keypads, Prologue
The promenade took on a subtle, but detectable, shift in mood as the spectrum of dusk oscillated on the glossy, sullen surface of the Housatonic Seaway.
The Tyler Street Canal
You might be interested in
![By Toby Hudson (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons](https://i0.wp.com/www.greylockglass.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cantaloupesjpg.jpg?resize=150%2C150&ssl=1)
FICTION: Cellar Spider
“Kill it, Daddy.”
He looked at his little girl, stiff and wide-eyed on the hotel room cot, with the covers pulled up just below her eyes. The contours of her nose, mouth, and chin under the taut sheet gave her face a shrink-wrapped look.
You might be interested in
FICTION:
Selecting Cantaloupes
![By Toby Hudson (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons](https://i0.wp.com/www.greylockglass.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cantaloupesjpg.jpg?fit=880%2C290&ssl=1)
by Jason Velázquez
He remembered that she liked cantaloupe. Correction: he remembered that she loved cantaloupe. She told him that if he were ever to be exiled to a desert island and only given three food choices for the rest of his life, he should choose turkey, kale, and cantaloupe because they provided (in combination) all the nutrients a body needed to survive. But that had nothing to do with her love of cantaloupe. She just ate the hell out of it whenever it was around.…
You might be interested in
“Jerry’s Java for Jesus” — Flash Fiction
flash fiction by Sheila Velazquez
Once a day, around noon, an old white Ford van pulls into the alley and parks in the lot of the apartment buildings.
Jerry serves between forty-five and sixty meals a day. He calls his mobile ministry “Java for Jesus,” and although he is not connected to any particular religion, Jerry does operate on faith. Most of the food Jerry serves comes from the local food bank and the Salvation Army, and the other costs are supported by donations.…
You might be interested in
“Wherefore, Egypt?” — Microfiction
by Jason Velázquez
“¿Mamá?” Esperanza’s question reverberates musically in the back of the Econoline, “¿Will I get to meet my papá?”
Dolores strokes the 11-year-old’s hair with one hand as the other glides reflexively to where, under her oil-stained work shirt, a circular pattern of raised, and occasionally sensitive, skin is a lighter color than the surrounding flesh.
Esperanza’s features are so fine, her frame so delicate and unlike her own, Dolores considers, that she might actually be able to identify the father.…
You might be interested in
FICTION: “A Contest of Wills”
“A Contest of Wills”
by Jason Velázquez
A few wire hangers bobbed back and forth absently, out of time, in the closet on his side of the bed. The deflated heap composed of grey wool socks, jeans, boxers, flannel shirt, and tee shirt huddled apologetically on the floor in front of the nightstand.
“You can damn well sit there until this house crumbles around you,” she informed the heap tonelessly as the Goodwill truck below rumbled and navigated the tight corner out of the driveway in reverse, beeping incessantly in warning.…
You might be interested in
