Latte Archives
Fiction

Spring 2015 Issue

Cloud Seeding in the Andes By Amalia Gladhart

I wasn’t supposed to go down by the cemetery, but I wasn’t with a boy. I was with Ana Inés and her cousins — we were looking for unguarded guavas — and then I was alone. So I was the only one who saw the plane, weaving and wobbling with a sound like a hive of bees about to explode or a lawnmower pushed way beyond its limits…

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The Russian Girl By Nancy Ludmerer

We flew the flag at half-mast after Marina Lubov died. We gathered in the rec hall for what we thought would be a memorial service but that turned out to be something else. All 49 of us sat cross-legged on the floor in our blue shorts and white Camp Wigwam T-shirts, our silence broken only by occasional weeping….

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Picnic at Angola By John Haggerty

Winner, 2014 Literal Latte Short Short Contest.
All through the hot summer of 1957, whenever they had the time, Patricia wanted to picnic down near the prison at Angola. She liked to be right up close, as close as they could get without the guards shooing them away. She and Clemson would drive down one of the levees until the fences were in view…

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Trouble Brewing By Kristin Walrod

Mom said, it’s important for me to serve, and that’s all she said about it, nothing about my dead little brother or Dad’s grief poured into the hood of broken-down cars in our front yard, or about the trouble I was in with the county and school and that other thing. She said that, then packed up and joined the Army, like she’s some eighteen year-old stumbling drunk into the recruitment office…

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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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