Tag Archives: Short Fiction

by Matt Gulley

It was raining under October outside the museum. Gabrielle and her date shared a cigarette in the cold. Cigarettes will burn at different rates depending on variables such as the density of the tobacco, the composition of the filter, and the strength of the vacuum applied by the twin bells of the lungs to the wet cavernous tower of the mouth. In the cold, this was not a leisurely pleasure but an attendant duty performed in the shelter of a high rounded corner of limestone at the top of the pavilion steps. As the ember drew to its concluding, Gabby’s date relayed a feeling from much earlier in the day, awaking in sweat having felt something real bad had happened, but failing to remember what, and while making conversation later with an acquaintance about a movie, not being able to parse if some part of that familiar-feeling discourse about the film had been a portion of a previous conversation with someone else, or if it had been part of the dream not remembered, and what a spacious sort of modern feeling that was. Yea said Gabby. Continue reading →