| NIGHT DREAMS published by Narrative Magazine www.narrativemagazine.com Read NIGHT DREAMS |
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| "I jerked to a halt just above the surface. Bronwyn reached from the water, locking wrists. The hydraulics fired and we were reeled upward, a dozen actors on steel wire dripping clockwise around us. Bronwyn played the lead, The Woman In Peril. I played Grimwald, Peril Incarnate. Water beaded down my length, and then hers, misting the cheap seats. She smiled, but I could see she no longer loved me. “Let go,” she whispered. “I’ll never let go,” I said, and then did. It was in the script. Bronwyn dropped away, perfectly arched, the slightest ripple in an expanse of black water." |
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| THE SPECTACLE published by Identity Theory www.identitytheory.com |
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| "Reece drove home carefully, the windows up and a tire-iron across his lap. At night, gangs of toughs stood under the bridges, lean and shadowy, with yellow eyes like ferrets. They lit fires and sang doo-wop songs and endlessly re-folded their bandannas. On both sides of the road, black smoke rose from greasy barrels. Magazines and empty pocketbooks and children’s shoes were strewn in the dirt. Reece accelerated, careful not to run over anything sharp." | |
| WINTER NINETY-FIVE, SPRING NINETY-SIX published by Redivider, issue #6.1, Fall 2008 View Redivider Website |
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"The truck smells of Walter, so Cole smells of Walter. In the hold is an old Samsonite and a propane stove. Cans of chili roll with the turns. When Cole asks Walter if he’s living in back, the truck angles into a motel courtyard, blocking a Toyota. There’s a pounding on the hood. It’s a big Hispanic guy with wraparounds and a grey mustache. He takes one look at Walter and goes back to his car. " |
| IT WAS MODELING SCHOOL published by Bat City Review, issue #3 View Bat City Review website |
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"Hey, Ricky," Face asks, and it's his old voice, not sarcastic anymore, just small and quiet, like back on the stoop a million years ago, "Look at me, huh?" He leans over, breathing through his ruined nose, from lips to eyes like spilled cofffeee, and angry pink-red of skln like it was burned and peeled, burned and peeled again and again. "You think you could carry this weight?" He runs his fingers gently around the outline of the scar. "You got the shoulders for this?" |
| THE SHOW published by Another Chicago Magazine, issue #47 View Another Chicago Magazine website |
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"At midnight I toss bags in the dumpster and empty rib bones into the grinder and scrape grease off my loafers with a pairing knife. Georgie the cook is smoking a cigarette on the loading dock, all tattoos and grill-burns, a big silver cross hanging around his neck. Georgie played some high school ball himself. I know that because about two or three times a shift he says Y'know, I played some high school ball myself..." |
| FLIGHT published by The New Orleans Review, issue# 30:2 View New Orleans Review website |
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"You just got home," I said, neck sweating. The sun bore through our shades, diffuse, but still strong enough to tan. Someone had She shrugged. "I'm going to stay with Mom for a while." |
| COLDWATER , OHIO published in Ballyhoo online: View Ballyoo Blog |
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| "I took a few running steps on the ice, arms out for balance, then waited until she caught up. What was I supposed to admit? There was a girl and then there wasn't. There was a job and a subway and weekends at dark-wood bars. I worked with a guy who wore non-prescription glasses because he thought they made him look smarter, and he was right. I sat in the park and fed squirrels and watched men in expensive shorts play elaborate games of Frisbee where they ran in circles and held out their arms and yelled here, here, HERE!" | |
| WINTER KILLS published in Glimmer Train, Issue #60 View Glimmer Train website |
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"I tripped over a lamp on the way out. The glass shade broke in two large pieces, a cheap metaphor, side by side on the carpet. Out the front window she stared, arms crossed, hair short and dyed white-blonde, looking like a silent movie star, like Frances Farmer just released from prison; severe and sexy and dangerous." |
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SOUTH TUCSON published in Bayou, issue #44 |
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"Painted gravel circled the church like a moat. Matthew followed it, crunching along until voices began to echo in the flat air. In the garden was a large canopy, dozens of men and women in suits and dresses, a bar and tables with elaborate settings. A number of chairs had been knocked over. The bride stood on one, ringed by six groomsmen, who were trying to ward off Agnes with mesquite branches." |
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RIVALS AND HYENAS ALIKE published in Barrelhouse, issue #2 |
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"I was unemployed but not jobless. The Basement was at the top of a list taped to the refrigerator. "Get rid of everything," my father said, stepping into the kitchen. He was barefoot. The linoleum was cold." Except the rakes." Our lawn was an apron of poured concrete. Wire fence enclosed a long-dead oak that would never shed a single leaf. "We have rakes?" |
| GUERRERO published in Instant City , issue #4 View Instant City website |
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"Need some help getting up?" The floor is splintered in circles, lacquer worn away. Downstairs, someone plays the old piano, which sounds like a lowing cow, a barely-realized minuet. "No, thanks." "Listen," she says, trying to smile and missing. "Listen, I don't want to pry, but is this something that could involve a lawsuit?" |
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JAKES published in DANGER CITY, on Contemporary Press |
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"Ted got up early, went for a run and then made some eggs. After doing the dish, he showered, letting the scalding water poach his face and shoulders. At noon he clicked on the tube. Pre-game, cheerleaders, ex-players trying to be clever in their expensive suits. The room was nearly empty, carpet and exposed wire, a few packing boxes, the odd Styrofoam peanut. Ted sipped a medium vodka and waited for kickoff." |
For information about Sean's short story collection "The Charms Of The Women Of Oslo,"
contact Jennifer de la Fuente, Fountain Literary: jennifer@fountainliterary.com
