by Alice Kinerk
Chase was standing by the whiteboard in his fourth-grade classroom, banging his math book against the tray at the bottom, where his teacher kept Expo markers. He’d discovered if he wailed hard enough, if he spread his stance and put the textbook above his head and brought it straight down again, like his gramps used to do with an ax, he could make the markers jump. Chase made it his goal to make the markers jump so high they would fall out of the tray. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Laurel DiGangi
Nathan was restless. He’d been waiting far too long with nothing to occupy his mind. No phones, zines, or screens. No landscape either: just an endless grassy knoll and sluggish queues of naked people extending to the horizon. The sun, or some other glowing orb, had not budged since he arrived an hour, week, or year ago.
Filed under Fiction
by M. Anne Kala`i
Naiwi’s first and only visit to the mainland nearly burned him down. Desperate to escape the island that knew him better than he knew himself, he sold what valuables he could scrape together from distracted vacationers and his cash-strapped family, and lit out for California. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by S. Holt
Aunt Fran had called with my mother’s death announcement. She was barely intelligible, blubbering into her phone, her tears probably clogging the buttons and ports. “She ran the car in the garage,” she sobbed. “Nothing they could do, just kept her on life support until last night.” She swallowed, collected herself. “They think your father really did take her in right away. Tried CPR. Which almost makes it harder to take.”
Filed under Fiction
by Fabiana Martínez
If men learn this, it will implant forgetfulness in their souls; they will cease to exercise memory because they rely on that which is written, calling things to remembrance no longer from within themselves, but by means of external marks. What you have discovered is a recipe not for memory, but for reminder.
Plato, Phaedrus, 274c-275 b, Reginald Hackforth, transl., 1952.
“You will have to sign page four and make three copies. One for us, one for you and… I’m confident they will require one at the funeral home, Sir,” the big blonde hospital administrator with one missing fake nail pronounced matter-of-factly. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 