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Written by Daniel Davis
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I suppose I should tell you about the Hobermans. Not 'cause I really want to, you know, but 'cause I figure it's what you're expecting of me. And, truthfully, it's the only story I really have to tell. Lots of folks, they have stories coming out their asses, pardon my French, but I've led a fairly uneventful life. Which, come to think of it, factors into the story you want me to tell.
Nobody on Woodlawn Lane has had an eventful life. Not really. Herb Laymon was in the war—'Nam, not that "pussy-footing Middle East pile of dog shit" as Herb would call it—but he only talks tough; we all know he was no war hero, no more so than all the other boys over there. And I think Nancy Clemens is on her fourth or fifth marriage, but these days that doesn't mean much. Clara and I have been married for twenty years, and we were each other's first—first spouse, that is; I don't hold any pretensions about myself, or her, either.
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Written by Dan Hornsby
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We could hear the Mexican radio through the floor above us. Laura and I lived in a basement apartment beneath her boss’s house. Aside from our three little rooms, the rest of the house was suffering heavy renovations. Laura’s boss, a wealthy woman who made her living through an ever-expanding collection of “small” businesses, had a long list of whimsical retouches which required the all-but annihilation of the house. After I helped Laura move in, the boss walked us around, pointing her fingers like God on the Sistine ceiling. Staircases would rotate. Walls would vanish, only to reappear on another floor. The existing colors were doomed to be replaced by their distant cousins and once-removed aunts. Laura and I snuck wide-eyed glances as we followed her through the house.
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Written by Raymond Philip Asaph
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WE WERE MEETING a lady at a home in Dix Hills. She was buying five or six pieces of good-name furniture from a family who had to sell everything. Our dispatcher told us the story before we left, so we knew what we were walking into. But we also knew the story from the news.
The man of the house—a white-collar dude, age 42--had embezzled five-point-three million dollars from his company, some big U.S. banking concern. The company had pressed charges because the money was never recovered. The gentleman had ditched it somewhere, maybe in one of those accounts overseas, where they give you a number instead of a name. No Tennis Court Prison for Ex-Exec the latest headline had read. I think the judge gave him seven years.
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Fiction & Poetry
