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fiction

Enigmas by Fernando Arrojo-Ramos

A frightening silence reigned, the silence of nothingness. I had a premonition of something terrible that I could not define, of something evil that I did not believe I could avoid.

HoneyLee by G.K. Wuori

She had to get rid of the baby, she said, because it had been fathered by a man with no nose, a natural no-nose so it was easy to know what that meant and the judgment had nothing to do with aesthetics.

Man in a Box by David McGrath

And then there is Rita, shoulders square, brown eyes straight ahead – unwavering but with a look of compassion: her mouth closed beneath that perfect nose, like Mona Lisa without the smile, Mona Lisa with aplomb but no grin. ... He is proud of her. Even for her affected indifference, for her pretending not to see him – he is proud of her for that, too.

The Umbriacal Cord by Shane O'Neill

Later he would blame the shadowy medieval street for lending an added credibility to her pronouncement. For now, however, he was about to turn on his heels and run. Horrific images of the plague, culled from television documentaries and illustrations in old history books, flashed inside his head.

Like Immigrants by Louis Malloy

In October 1967 two men are standing at the entrance to the grill bar of the Westover Hotel waiting to be seated. The man in the dark suit is my father; the man in the sweatshirt and grey leather jacket is Andy Warhol.

The Fourth Corner by Lisa Polisar

Albert Diamond rubbed his eyes and looked down on himself, sitting there on the heating vent in a worn undershirt and blue boxer shorts, as if to comment on the irony of his inadvertent accomplishment. “You want it?”

Queen Esther's Day by Andrew Spurrier

After some rice, the broadcasts ended and the music began. A lonely violin appeared above a bubbling rumble of strings, reaching for the star where all good violins go when they die, never reaching it, but grasping, trying, drawing ever nearer to the end.

Love at Brasserie Lelas by William Prendiville

Five years of marriage had not prepared them for this. Every time Pierre had arrived – to take the order, to bring the food, to collect, now, the dishes, almost impudently polite – neither would look at him. David stared at her for a long time, picked up his spoon and turned it from top to bottom, slowly, several times.

The Madman's Books by Andrew Nicoll

You didn’t wonder where I’d gone. That’s the worst part. Maybe you were showing a gentle restraint in not asking what I was doing all those weeks. I’d like to think that. I will think that. Always think the best of you.

Give Up by Luke Tennis

"You want too much," Frenchy said the next day. "I see it in your eyes. You're looking around this place." He paused to sip his drink. "Always looking, but there's nothing to find. Enough, already, with the looking, the wanting. Surrender, is what I'm saying. Up with the hands."

The Sixth Day by J.E. Boles

"There's a problem," she said. "It's illegal to capture a wild animal." Everyone considered this. They could hear the water running in Waymire Creek below the place. Judah Carey floated behind the group, watching the animal warily with his head cocked first left, the right. The elk lowered his head before Delpha.

poetry

Twilight Revising
by Mary Alexandra Agner

I can never have enough of evening,
the way it fades in like a question

Shotgun by Susan Culver

I could have been a waitress
in some flatland city where
the horizon is an unbroken
light line;

I Will Die of Having Lived
by Mary Alexandra Agner

I will die of increase-by-ring, rain
or drought; crusty cells of Sequoia bark;

essay

Eddie Smiledge by Tom Sheehan

He answered only to Smiledge, never to his Christian name, never to hey you or houseman or you over there by a newcomer. Smiledge, he’d say. Smiledge it was. It seemed to us that it was Smiledge forever. Then one day he was gone, but that’s ahead of me.

My Father Was Lenin by Misha Firer

The city was an acid trip gone awry: it came down like a nightmare to corrupt my mind, my soul, my dreams. Its initial goal was to scare me witless, and then to subjugate me. It checked the extent of my will, how far I could go on my own devices, how high I could rise when tons of concrete pressed down upon me. I was tested: would all my energy be sucked out of me? My role was as yet undecided.

In the Balance of Things by Rochelle Mass

I know my father is soon to be 89 years old. I know that he will die one day, maybe soon, and what I fear is not his death, but his life.

art

Paris Metro Line by Guillaume Destot

The art featured in the HTML and PDF editions of this issue of The Paumanok Review was graciously provided by Mr. Destot. You can view more of his photography online at Fotolog.com.

download the issue in PDF TPR 18 cover

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