Art by Shelby Knauss
“The Goddamn Sorcerer of Love.” The Cincinnati Review. Summer 2019.
The dog seller hawks mangy curs across from me at the flea market. Misty brings me a cherry slushie like she’s a woman who takes care of her man. Don’t think I don’t notice she makes a big show of it for mister dog seller. The son of a bitch wears clean overalls. He’s bigger than everyone else, muscly, and has a braided goatee.
“It looks like a shriveled snake biting his chin,” I say.
Misty says, “I think it makes him look like a Viking.”
I want to soak his goatee in gasoline. I’m thinking fuse. I’m thinking light that sucker and maybe his head explodes. The guy’s a real talker. I’m suspicious, as if he’s stolen something the rest of us need . . .
Art by Shelby Knauss
“Mushroom Politique.” storySouth. Issue 46: Fall 2018.
Back home, Martin drank from the faucet to rehydrate in the aftermath of Thanksgiving. Where had things gone wrong? He was proud he’d sent his son to college, even if that’s when things had started to go south between them. He wished that university understood the real world, where you couldn’t spend all day fussing over best practices, stream buffers, and silt fences. Peter came home from college spouting off all the things Martin shouldn’t be doing. It got so bad they couldn’t work together.
Out the window, two boys snuck across Martin’s pasture in the moonlight. Oh, hell no, he thought. Not tonight. He marched past his wife and grabbed his shotgun. Stomping out the back door, he loaded without looking.
Art by Matthew Welborn
“The Lizard Man.” Blackbird. Fall 2016. Vol. 15. No 2. Winner of the Rebecca Mitchell Tarumoto Short Fiction Prize.
I’m from Lee County, South Carolina. Bishopville: Home of the Lizard Man. On June 29, 1988, a local boy, seventeen at the time, blew a tire driving home late from work. He had just finished changing it beside Scape Ore Swamp when a tall, slathering creature lunged out of the woods. The boy dove into his car and locked the doors. He fumbled with his keys as reptilian fingers ripped at the driver’s side handle. The scaly creature leapt onto the roof and clawed at his windshield. Swerving at high speed, the boy threw the cryptid from his car.
I love this story because the kid survived.
Art by Den Latham
“Night Vision.” Mississippi Review. Summer 2016. Vol. 44. No. 1 & 2.
“This is the big room,” Jason said. His mom leaned against the arch, red wine in hand, and rolled her eyes. “Great room,” she said. Oh, Jason. What would she ever do with him? Ben placed his index finger to his temple, pulled back his thumb, and fired. What had he been thinking, coming to another party like this?
The ceiling must have been twenty feet high. The reclaimed floor tiles originally came from a French villa. The Persian rugs really were from Persia. A life-size portrait of Jason, commissioned during a Montana hunting trip, hung on the wall. Jason held an over-and-under shotgun on his hip, the silver receiver engraved BERETTA. Two dead pheasants, blue tail feathers a perfect match for Jason’s eyes, set the painting off.
Mr. Evers managed an investment portfolio.
The Evers liked Charleston, they said, because it was quaint.