Dossier Journal: Read » Fiction

You and I Are More Alike Than I Once Supposed, Fiction by Anna Potter

Anna Potter — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 07:34:39 +0000

My take on the founding fathers debacle is that you and I are more alike than I once supposed. We are both at this point in time somewhat stunned by life, but we know that even so, there are only two ways it can go. Both are pretty unspeakable, though one is definitely preferable, but if you are wondering why you will not know more until later, in fact, if you are wondering why you may never know more, I can tell you why: it is because, like most momentous events, these things can only be brushed up, switched around, and segmented into little pieces, and even then, in the long run, they come to get you, but by that point, for the most part, you are gone.

Someone, in general but not always, remembers you, but then again, in general, no one does. And then there is the ocean and the cliffs, and you forget why you’re here. And then there is the tiredness that involves wondering whether the world is tenderhearted.

In truth, it’s probably not one way or the other, but that in of itself makes everything else more simple. The simplest version of things is that no one person can know everything, ever.

I do and I do and I do, but this thing I do doesn’t make me happy exactly. It’s not the same as watching Spanish soap operas or eating Breyer’s mint chocolate chip ice cream out of the blue clay bowl. No, this thing I do is simpler and more complicated all at once. But I suppose in truth, it is better than before, because before, I was ostensibly happiest when asleep.

But now I suppose you are wondering what it was like for me to forget, to forgive?

But you see, I haven’t a clue in the world. All I know is that a couple nights ago, we were walking at dusk through a park in Westerly, Rhode Island, and you were scared of getting lost and I was scared of getting mugged, but instead, we found a pondful of blooming water lilies. Now that’s what I call luck.

for JG

Anna Potter’s work has appeared in jubilat and on Poetry Daily. She received an MFA in fiction from the University of Wisconsin, and was the recipient of the James Merrill writer-in-residence residency for Spring 2007. She lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband and their beloved houseplant, Jade.

Hundreds of Tiny Lights: Fiction by Anne Earney

Anne Earney — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 10:12:04 +0000

1. The sun goes down.

I stand on the marble patio with Mark, Sara and Sam, everyone’s back to the west, except mine. My wine glass refracts pinks and yellows as the sun dips. It begins to seem possible to relax. I catch Mark’s eye, hoping the pink on my cheeks seems to reflect the sunset, rather than my guilt.

2. It is difficult to read faces by candlelight.

I only have to watch what I say, not what I think. My visage is especially responsive to my psyche. When I am annoyed that I have yet to learn this basic element of control, it shows. Yes, even that shows.

3. The temperature drops.

Sara and Sam wrap their arms around each other. Mark makes a joke about cave people and warmth that doesn’t bear repeating. I watch him laugh at Sara and wish I could, too. Mark is the ex-husband of a mutual friend, and my best friend. He is also a banker. Sara is a close friend from childhood. Sam is a contractor. I am an architect. We have done well, from the looks of things, but I cannot quite look at Mark as I should, as a friend. Only a friend.

4. Things come to an end.

When my glass empties, I decline more. As I walk down Sara and Sam’s steps, my path illuminated by hundreds of tiny lights nearly hidden under groundcover, I wonder if I hadn’t always suspected it would end this way, that it would be my fault, and my failure would be a combination of what I had done, and what I couldn’t do.

5. This turns out to be true.

Anne Earney lives in St. Louis, Missouri and works in a grocery store, putting the MFA she earned from the University of Missouri-St. Louis to good use. Her fiction has been published in places such as Opium Magazine, Hamilton Stone Review, Night Train, Versal and Big Ugly Review.

Spots: A Short Short Story by Sophie Rosenblum

Sophie Rosenblum — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 09:52:07 +0000

My sister and I spent our time in London at Madame Tussauds, holding hands with Hitler and Madonna. We were avoiding parents. They had given us each fifteen pounds. I took mine to the exchange place, trading them in for dollars. “For when we’re back,” I said. Liza spent hers on candy. I thought about the pact we’d made before we left. Collect as much money as possible, so we’d be free to go where we pleased. “Don’t you remember?” I asked Liza, pinching the back of her arm.

We collected living things. Put them in a plastic box from the grocery store used for holding pre-washed salads. When we were in Germany, I picked out a large brown speckled snail and said, “Schnecken is a great name.” My sister agreed. We found two lime green caterpillar in the Tuileries. “We’ll start a zoo!” I said. “We can charge people to see it.” We thought we had really come up with something.

On our last week we found the ladybug. We kept it in a black cowboy hat on a train to Turkey. It was our prizewinner. The one we knew people would line up to see. “She’s our cash cow,” I said. Liza mooed.

I looked at the ladybug and planned my new life.

On the floor of the hotel room, we were counting the spots on her back. Our father stepped on her fair and square. It wasn’t on purpose. It was in the place where his foot went down right before the bathroom. I heard his steps, and then she was gone. For a moment I thought I might cry. “I know,” Liza said, handing me a piece of chocolate. “Now we’ll never know how old she was.”

Sophie Rosenblum is the 2008-2009 Rice University Parks Fellow. Recent work has appeared in or is forthcoming from SmokeLong Quarterly and Gulf Coast.