Reckon Review

Tag: fiction

  • Cleaning House

    Fiction by Kim Steutermann Rogers Across town, a large hole is being dug to contain your grief, the headline read. Come by at dawn, dump your troubles, start a new day. The first day, Jen offloaded her ex’s favorite coffee mug, the stained one with a big blue “M,” the logo of his college alma…

  • Orphans

    Fiction by Jamy Bond On clear nights we snuck through the window of the bunk house and made our way to the creek to skip rocks and soak our feet. There was something about the cool air, the sable sky, the moon’s vibrant bloom that made our crime worth its potential punishment. If Mr. Brody…

  • Every Which Way, the Wind

    Fiction by Pat Foran My Dear Frontal Passage Friend, We’re having trouble hearing each other. Is it windy where you are? Is it raining, Gene Kelly raining, where you are? Is there a fire in the back of your head, burning from the back to the front, perpetually? Is it like falling falling falling without…

  • Three Deer Yesterday While Driving

    Fiction by Donald Ryan Headlights interrupted the young buck’s breakfast. With his head alert and body frozen, his close-cropped, sprouting points were as clear as a positive afterimage on the first blink. As the road veered, the beams, straight with the car’s speed of light, yielded the trance. He thawed. Another blink. He was gone,…

  • If a tree starts crying for help in the middle of a forest, but it’s at a frequency too high for human ears to hear, did it really cry?

    Fiction by Kirsten Reneau Yes, because we can actually see the acid tears that the roots secrete up through the soil, slicing their way through the hard dirt, physical markers of the call for help. Yes, because it is very likely people who are making the tree cry – well, the people or maybe termites…

  • Beauty in the Bones

    An excerpt from In the Lonely Backwater Fiction by Valerie Nieman The kitchen at the Plantation wasn’t anything like the rest of the house. No displays of artificial flowers or gold-painted Valentine cupids holding up lamps, no bright-colored couches or polished furniture. It was a working place, my grandmother’s office. We had moved back from…

  • Crows in the Barleyfield

    Fiction by C.W. Blackwell Adelia hides in the tall barley and watches the old man pace at the edge of the field. He looks lost and unsteady on his feet, sunlight glinting from his thick drugstore eyeglasses. He shouts her name with his hands laced atop his head as if the pose could somehow carry…

  • Extraction

    Fiction by Beth Gilstrap Novella had a tooth extraction and thought she’d be fine to drive herself home, but the gas was more palpable than she expected. It wore off enough to make the throbbing in her right cheek crawl down into her neck. Her hands felt dead. She plopped one on top of the…

  • I Have This Thing About Being Wrong

    Fiction by George Singleton My neighbor couldn’t put a four-piece puzzle of Florida together, but he’d been likable. We never talked politics or religion, or history, literature, television shows that don’t involve a laugh-track, music, baseball, health insurance, how America is supposed to be welcoming to immigrants. Reese’s the weatherman, six and eleven, for one…

  • Palisades Girl

    Fiction by Jim Cheney A skinny Metro cop is standing in front of me outside this deli over on Commerce Street. He’s got me cuffed, leaning up against the car, taking notes in his little pad, and asking the same questions over and over again. Then this big cop walks up and whispers something to…