Category Archives: Fiction

Derelict Orders

by Donald Carreira Ching

I used to count the cars like the next one would be the last one, but there’s
really no point. There’s always another one abandoned on Dump Road, on the side of the highway near the military base, or at the beach park. If I troll along Kamehameha Highway near the pier, I’ll usually find at least one just before the road curves toward the waterfront homes that look out onto the sandbar, Ahu O Laka. Continue reading

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Dick Fleming Is Lost

by Jeff Ewing

George wasn’t friends, exactly, with Dick Fleming. He knew him well enough to nod to in the halls and, later, at the meeting house. He thought Kip might remember him, might even have kept in touch, but all he said was “sort of a washout, wasn’t he?” Which bothered George more than he would have imagined. It wasn’t a fitting way for anyone to be remembered. Continue reading

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in which the book asserts a certain capability and exercises it

as told to Glenn Ingersoll

Excerpt from Autobiography of a Book

I like to imagine you holding me. I may just be a book but I have an imagination. And what I imagine is your hands.

Your hands holding me so I don’t fall down, so your eyes can get a good look at me, a good look at everything. I hold nothing back. And you hold it all. I like that, thinking of you. Continue reading

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in which the book, awake at last, revisits other readers

as told to Glenn Ingersoll

Excerpt from Autobiography of a Book

I sleep. Yes, while on the shelf I sleep. Do I dream? I dream. I remember my dreams.

There’s this one dream in which I’m lying open on the bed and a beautiful drag queen is paging slowly through my innermost pages. She leans close close because she is myopic and vain and won’t put on her glasses. Her eyelashes graze the paper as she blinks. No no, I can’t allow her to think I am ticklish. For then, what would she do to me? Such girls can be so cruel. Her eyes are dark, so dark I wonder that my words don’t get lost in them, blundering about in search of the naked lightbulb in the dressing room of her soul. Continue reading

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in which the book reviews its positions

as told to Glenn Ingersoll

Excerpt from Autobiography of a Book

I stand, mostly. I stand and wait. I stand among my brothers, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Among my sisters, cheek by jowl. Each to each pressed. I stand among them, many of them far greater, older, more praised, more frequently translated, larger in the world. And am I proud to be in their company? I am grateful! Continue reading

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