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Fiction

Fall 2014 Issue

The Book of Fishing By Mark Holden

Third Prize, 2014 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
1961: The river ran cold and clear, alive with minnows. He waded in until the water reached his knees. Above him, the sun. Around him, the minnows: churning, flashing, crashing into his legs and bouncing off, each with barely the force of a fly. Yet there were hundreds, thousands, of jittery fish passing him wave after wave until white-crowned, gray-bellied clouds shrouded the sun and stole its power, and stole whatever had made the fish a moment ago vital….

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Kaplan By Jeanne Levy-Church

Kaplan left for work yesterday morning holding a glass of grapefruit juice in his left hand.

“Why are you taking a glass of juice?” I shouted out the window.

“What?” he shouted looking up at the sky.

“The glass!” I shouted back….

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Affection By Shannon Sweetnam

Second Prize, 2014 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
They moved into the squat brick Georgian in June. They bought trash cans and cleaning supplies, a plastic patio table and chair set, a shiny red front-propelled rear-bag lawn mower, three combination carbon monoxide detector fire alarms, two fire extinguishers, a fold-up escape ladder, a battery-operated weather radio, a gas grill, and — just in case — a wooden baseball bat Jake planned on keeping under the bed…

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An Original Sin By Colin Brezicki

First Prize, 2014 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
We have heavy weather in Muskoka on this Saturday afternoon, a big winter storm coming through. I’m backing out of my drive, heading to the convenience for propane, a few perishables, some beer. We’re okay with wine. Steaks are marinating. Life is good.

Snowing for an hour already. Best to go before the roads are a problem, even for four-wheel drive.

Beth and Ciara are inside the cottage, a fire blazing in the grate. Another long weekend together, away from the city.

But I’ve forgotten my wallet….

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Spring 2014 Issue

How To Be A Cowboy By S. Brady Tucker

Winner, 2013 Literal Latte Short Short Contest.
By the time he gets there the calf is dead and has been for some time — the meat will be sour and rank by the time it gets to the hooks in the ruined barn; it won’t even be good enough to grind up for stew meat. He sees dollar signs dead in the water, but what’s another lost five hundred dollars at this point?

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Coward By Charles W. Brice

Melba had been running around Cherry Creek with a knife lunging after white people. “Just another crazy nigger,” the cop who brought Melba to our ward said. The cop smelled like rawhide and cigars. His leather belt creaked when he took off Melba’s cuffs. This was 1970 Denver. Martin Luther King was only two years dead. There’d been riots in Denver after he was killed….

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Fall 2013 Issue

With All the Trouble Jesus Went Through He Should at Least Get a Jelly Bean By Heather Tucker

Winner, 2013 Literal Latte Short Short Contest.
Dad’s taken Charlie ahead to ball practice while I continue to scour Sideline 22 for Mom’s uterus. Mom’s always losing something. I don’t mind being left to carry out search and rescue. I suck at ball. Besides, any minute now Lori Penter will be coming home from her piano lesson. She’s forbidden to talk to me on account of the holy war, but if she was allowed, she’d say hi — maybe.

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For Love By Enid Harlow

Second Prize, 2013 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
The mother’s voice was loud. Too loud. The sound was startling. Her eyes were wide and bright. Frank wondered if she was taking drugs herself. A family thing. Or maybe she was plastered, had got herself appropriately inebriated for the occasion. Pickled. The word jumped into his mind, and he thought it apt. Pickled in mind and body for the occasion of her son’s funeral….

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Winter 2013 Issue

The Past Life Hypnotist Predicts The Future By Judith Slater

Winner, 2012 Literal Latte Short Short Contest.
Just a few minutes ago I began to feel the tide tugging a little harder, the fog closing in, and I knew without looking at my watch that it was close to quitting time. I’m tired — bone weary, really. In the space of only one afternoon I took a threesome of middle-aged women back, one by one, to 18th-century Lisbon….

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Mistaken Identity By Enid Harlow

Third Prize, 2012 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
In a corner of the room sits an old man with sparse white hair, face of chalk, and fixed blue eyes. His body is as thin as a cadaver’s and his eyes stare out into the room as if they would seize everything in it and take it down into themselves. The baby at the breast cannot see the old man sitting in the corner….

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