by Zoran Ernjakovic
Brian’s new roommate arrived three weeks into the semester, dragging nothing but a small silver cube that hummed when you got too close.
“My name is Zyx,” he said, extending a hand that gripped just a beat too long. “Pronounced like ‘zicks.'”
He was clearly an alien. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Neema Samawi
I’ve thought a lot about the way I died. Flashes of it come back to me on nights like this, when jackets pile by the door and voices mingle with the delicate taps of wine bottles placed on countertops. Harvey, the host of tonight’s housewarming, hovers in the foyer and gives tours to new arrivals. His eyes shimmer behind fishbowl glasses, darting between the entrance and the guests collected inside. He shuffles from foot to foot, glances at his phone. The doorbell rings.
Two men appear in the doorway, one in a Ralph Lauren sweater, the other with Stegosaurus spikes for hair. “Should we take off our shoes?” Sweater Guy asks, and Harvey gently requests they do. Timberlands, loafers, and about ten pairs of white sneakers line the entrance. I follow them as they follow Harvey up to his bedroom. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Vanessa Blakeslee
Three days before Columbus Day weekend, the Aurora borealis was predicted to shine over New England with the best chances for clear night skies over coastal Maine, and the elderly father insisted that his sons drive him to see the phenomenon. He and their mother had always yearned to see the Northern Lights but had missed their chance, now that she had passed away in August. A trip to see the Northern Lights was something he wanted to do on what would have been their anniversary weekend, his first as a widower, to honor her memory. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Masha Kisel
On Monday, I ate three Taco Bell Crunch Wraps, two bean burritos, one Fiesta Burrito and an order of Nachos Bellgrande. Washed it down with a large Coke. I practice in the mirror first. Tom always asks if my stomach hurts after, but it never does. Eating in front of the camera is like not eating at all. You’re a second person, a second stomach, a non-corporeal being, stuffing a hologram mouth for ED teens, bored housewives, and perverts. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Asa Merritt
In the moments before she bit him, Belle was running faster than I’d ever seen her run. A black mass zooming across the immense sunset, towards the pear tree, towards my nephew underneath the pear tree, who even then was about to throw another pear. Pelt her, another time, even though she’d snapped her massive jaws in his face only hours before. I saw it happen, walked from the screen porch to the yard, lit a cigarette, and told him not to treat her like that. This time, when the pear struck her face as she ran, she didn’t snap her jaws, she opened them and kept them open. I screamed at Belle as I ran from the porch and the door slammed behind me, then it slammed again, and his mother was beside me, and we ran. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 