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When She Met Him by Brianne M. Kohl

Jellyfish Review

When She Met Him

She was fifteen when she met him.

She was born, red-faced screaming into this world, when she met him.

She could hardly breathe when she met him.

She was seven, she was fifty-four, she was seventy-two when she met him.

She was a wife and a mother of four – almost thirty-seven years old, unable to sleep, a little overweight, unable to pinpoint the exact moment when those deep wrinkles appeared on her face but he brushed a gentle finger over her furrows and told her she was beautiful when she met him.

She was on the playground, hanging upside down on the monkey bars when she met him.

She was a Playboy Bunny, a photographer, a secretary at a talent agency when she met him.

She was desperately looking for a mentor when she met him.

She was a hostess in the restaurant he co-owned, a kitschy…

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Flash Fiction: Saint Florian’s Sanctuary by Brianne M. Kohl

JMWW

I wish I had a flashlight but that would be against the rules.

The long gravel drive is over run by tree roots, riddled with dips and bumps. It winds deep into the woods. We find the abandoned church with the broken sign out front. It reads, “Saint Florian’s Slovak Catholic Church. We_come.”

I take your hand and tell you everything is wonderful, you’re wonderful and so pretty in the moonlight.

We call the game “Make Out Patrol” or M.O.P’ing for short. Some of the guys call it “Slut Hunting” but I’ve never called it that.

I would never call it that.

I pull you through the woods, beyond the crumbling headstones. We have to hurry. The guys will find us soon. I think, for a moment, maybe against a headstone? I’ve done it before but I reconsider when I see the look on your face.

Besides, when the guys…

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Saint Florian’s Sanctuary published at JMWW

I wish I had a flashlight but that would be against the rules.

The long gravel drive is over run by tree roots, riddled with dips and bumps. It winds deep into the woods. We find the abandoned church with the broken sign out front. It reads, “Saint Florian’s Slovak Catholic Church. We_come.”

I take your hand and tell you everything is wonderful, you’re wonderful and so pretty in the moonlight.

We call the game “Make Out Patrol” or M.O.P’ing for short. Some of the guys call it “Slut Hunting” but I’ve never called it that.

I would never call it that…

Saint Florian’s Sanctuary published at JMWW

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A Change In Latitude Wins Wigleaf Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction

Wigleafwinner

Thank you to Scott Garson, editor at Wigleaf for publishing A Change in Latitude and to Mythic Picnic for his kind patronage. This means a lot to me.

Congratulations to all of the finalists and my fellow shortlisters! If you enjoyed my story, please go back and read theirs, as well. This is an amazing class of writers. I’m proud to be a member.

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A Change In Latitude published at Wigleaf

I see a blur of red bobbing in the horizon. I’m sitting, alone, in a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Supplies are dangerously low. How hard is it to catch a sea gull? Can you eat a sea gull? I’ve read people drink their own urine in survival situations.

I haven’t peed in two days…

A Change In Latitude published at Wigleaf as a finalist in the

Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction

While you are there, check out my post card:

My dear Wigleaf — 

I worry, some days, that I don’t even belong in the wild west. I’ve never circled the wagons. I don’t even have a wagon, can’t afford it, they aren’t cheap. Cattle rustling? A job for quicker cowgirls…

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Gods of the F Train published at Devilfish Review

 

I meet a god on the F train on the way to the doctor’s office. Not an important god; a lesser deity. I won’t say which one but he’s well known for his love of westerly winds and acting like a jealous fool….

Gods of the F Train published at Devilfish Review. 

 

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Emergency Escape Plan published at Bending Genres

The best home safety fire escape ladder, it says on the back of the box, is portable and easy to maneuver.

The box is surprisingly light with a lid designed for easy flipping. On the front is a picture of a little boy in blue-and-white rocket pajamas, descending a nylon ladder from a fully engulfed window. The boy looks frightened, yes, but determined. Not safe, exactly, but nearly there. He is looking down at the ground where someone is waiting for him…

Emergency Escape Plan | Bending Genres

February 2018

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Interview with David Leavitt of Subtropics

Leavitt by Anthony Rue

David Leavitt is the prolific author of several short story collections such as Family Dancing for which he was finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Prize and the National Book Critics’ Circle Award. He’s written numerous novels. While England Sleeps was a Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Fiction Prize and The Indian Clerk was not just a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Prize but also shortlisted for the IMPAC/Dublin Award. He’s co-authored anthologies and his work has appeared in many newspapers and magazines including The New Yorker, The Paris Review and Tin House. He is a recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Gugenheim Foundation and the Institute of Catalan Letters in Barcelona, Spain. Professor Leavitt has taught at Princeton and currently teaches at the University of Florida where he is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Subtropics.

I had the remarkably good fortune to interview him for The Review Review. Check it out!

“I Look for Stories That Grab Me by the Collar and Won’t Let Me Go.” A Chat With David Leavitt, Editor of Subtropics

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Men Stop Me Running | Catapult

 

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Men Stop Me Running published at Catapult

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Men yell at me from car windows. My stride is slow and steady. I’m training for the American Tobacco Trail Half Marathon, my first real race. Before now, I’ve never attempted anything over 5k.

“Hey!” a man yells and it sounds like he’s falling off a cliff. The car drives away and he’s still yelling the tail end of the word until the sound floats away to nothing and he is gone.

A mile later, a beige-gold Chrysler Town & Country swerves around me and a man yells, “I will fuck you!” The back window of his van is black with little white stick-family stickers: Smiling Mommy, Smiling Daddy, Baby Girl, Soccer-playing-Son, Silly Dog with floppy ears.

I watch the van drive away, cautious. Can you Stow-and-Go an adult human woman? I guess I’m just being paranoid.

He hasn’t really threatened me, has he? But, it wasn’t a compliment, either. Men do not yell at women from moving cars because we are desirable.

I keep running, imagining Smiling Daddy falling off the side of the cliff. His stick family stands at the top, dumbfounded. As he falls, he screams, “I will fuck you!” until his dying breath stretches out to nothing and he is gone.