Posts Tagged ‘ VII.II ’

“Strange Fish,” by David Powell

Dec 20th, 2010 | By

“I’ve bought you something,” she said. She looked excited, like a puppy eager to please.

“Oh really? What could that be? A season ticket to the opera, or a year’s supply of anti-depressants?” he said and shut the front door.

“Ow,” said the door. “Not so hard.”

“You’ll like it, I think,” she said. Her tongue was hanging out and she’d cocked her head to one side so that her ear flopped in a cute way over her left eye. “It’s to help your recovery. Come through.”

She led him into the sitting room.

“It’s an aquarium,” he said. “It’s just what I’ve always wanted. Is there a sunken ship?”



Defenestration: August 2010

Aug 20th, 2010 | By

Welcome, one and all, to the August 2010 issue of Defenestration!

Prepare yourselves. Prepare to fall in love with hilarity. Because it’s here, on every digital page. That’s how we roll here at Defenestration. This issue’s offerings are pretty hefty: four of the short stories this time around are well over 2,000 words, and two of those go beyond 3,000. After this read, you’ll be able to pat your belly with contentment. (Or whatever other body part you tap when you’re content. I won’t ask. I’m generally a polite guy.)



“Space Opera,” by Cal Cleary

Aug 20th, 2010 | By

I am sitting in a room with at least three hundred people, and I have been asked to move to the back because of my gigantic hat. I am not sure how to react. If I move, I will undoubtedly read about my shame in tomorrow’s gossip section, or at least I will hear about it tauntingly during my daily super-spacial swimming with fellow gentlemen. I do not want this. And, I reason, if the people behind me were important enough to do something about it, they would very probably not be sitting behind me.



“Famous Last Words,” by Paul Giles

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

SHIRT: “The first hanging is also the last.”

BED: “Tiredness: the little death.”

PILLOW: “Once bitten, twice shy.”



“Mack,” by Autumn Hayes

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

Forget your diet. We both know why you came here.
You ogle my browned buns,
my prime-beefcake physique,
and you cannot stay away
because I’m built



“Orlando Bloom in Morning,” by Evan Allgood

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

Light spills into the hotel room
like ill-prepared lemonade from
the sky’s 5-cent stand, the one
all the hung-over grown-ups
have been trying to avoid.

Orlando blinks



“Cookies,” by Lauren Hargrave

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

“I don’t know what to tell you, our last exterminator wasn’t worth jack. He bumped and bruised his way through our home like a Neanderthal on steroids.”

“He was a cute Neanderthal from what I remember.”

“Eh, I don’t like the cleft chin thing; it reminds me of a plumber’s crack. And when someone’s ripping your kitchen apart and tearing up your hydrangeas, it’s pretty difficult to find them attractive.”



“The Saint of Redirection,” by Robert Scotellaro

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

I pray to the patron Saint of Redirection, who shows up juggling sardines and a large red apple he takes a bite out of every revolution or so.

“This life,” I say. “The sheer weight of it…”

“Is that you?” he asks, letting the silvery circle collapse at his feet — slipping the apple in his pocket. He’s pointing to an old photo. “No, that’s my older brother, when we were kids. I’m the one…” I turn and see he’s now rowing across the living room in a small boat. “Calm seas,” he announces, skirting the TV. “I think it’s going to be a magnificent voyage.”



“The Jane Austen Politico Fan Club,” by Leslie Haynsworth

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

“Folkstone looks a lot less orange today,” says Denise. “So that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s still not quite on message about the school funding thing. He told the Nurses Association that his plan would cut their property taxes by an average of 31%. But our data shows that 64% of nurses in our state rent rather than own their primary residences. And as you know …”



“Puppy Love,” by George Walker

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

In the Ninth Ward of New New Orleans, the CEO of Atomitronics unleashed a flock of flamingobots. John LeChien, walking to work in the morning, heard them before he turned and saw them: a stiff-gaited pink horde clacking across the street and sidewalks.

He evaded the sharp beak of the first one and dropped to all fours to snap its plastic neck with his jaws. The beak of the second ripped his overalls to expose short blond fur. There were too many of them, rushing him from all directions. Tail between his legs, he dove between them and rolled, hearing the too-close thok-thok-thok of beaks striking the sidewalk.