by Salvatore DIFALCO

The Con­tes­sa cools her­self with a pink silk fan as I climb her shoul­ders. I strad­dle her neck with my thighs in their green vel­vet leg­gings, and cov­er her right eye with my right hand while I raise a glass of ru­by with my left and thus sin­is­ter hand and toast the pur­ple phan­tasm mount­ing my shoul­ders, per­haps an in­car­na­tion of Bac­chus gen­er­at­ed by my psy­che. I toast you, Bac­chus! And I al­so toast Eros, who may be float­ing above Bac­chus, shoot­ing lit­tle ar­rows. Will this bring me mis­for­tune? Will this bring me mis­for­tune even if I am left-hand­ed? The Con­tes­sa is tol­er­ant in the ex­treme. Tick­led pink by me, she per­mits all man­ner of li­cense, with­in reason.

Wee, I can see the aban­doned green cas­tle from this lofty coign and the green lands sur­round­ing it. The cas­tle be­longed to the Contessa’s great grand­fa­ther long be­fore the fam­i­ly lost its for­tune. One of my japes to­day is wear­ing a scar­let jack­et that be­longs to her fa­ther, Count Monte­doro. Does it not look smart on me? Am I not spruce with it on? It makes me feel no­ble. That said, the Count will kill me be­fore this day is done. More claret, my dear? Please quit shuf­fling your feet in their pearl-bead­ed shoes. Do not let me spill it on your grass-smeared, wed­ding-white dress. She wore this dress why? To gam­bol with me up and down the grassy hills and over the fields like two lu­natics? Or to mock her fa­ther and their fa­mil­ial tra­di­tions, dic­tat­ed by blood bonds and sta­tus? But we are not get­ting mar­ried. We are get­ting drunk!

Thus far she has pol­ished off half the bot­tle. Of course I drank a bot­tle on my own be­fore we set off on our jour­ney. Ques­tion: How can she sup­port me and Bac­chus on her shoul­ders? I am not a small man. I am not a large man, but I am not a small one. And Bac­chus is Bac­chus, my grape-hued muse. Good ques­tion! You are do­ing well, Con­tes­sa. Wee! This makes me mer­ry, this makes the Con­tes­sa mer­ry. Her fa­ther would be hor­ri­fied if he could see her now. And if he saw me in his jack­et he would like­ly try to pierce me with the or­na­men­tal sword sheathed on his flank or shank me with the an­tique dirk he keeps in his sleeve. And I do not blame him. I do not blame your fa­ther, Con­tes­sa. No man of sound mind would sanc­tion my union with his daugh­ter or with any woman he knew. I am com­fort­able with this. But that does not mean I can­not play.

Wee, Con­tes­sa. I beg you not to stum­ble now, not to drop me with­out warn­ing. I sense a sub­tle slack­en­ing. Your laugh­ter has di­min­ished, dear. Are you not en­joy­ing your­self? Shall I jump down and per­form a few ac­ro­bat­ics for your amuse­ment? Bac­chus squeezes my head with his thighs. What is he try­ing to tell me? That I should jump down and do what is right? Or that he does not feel well and short­ly will evac­u­ate his con­tents? Con­tes­sa, Con­tes­sa, what shall we do? Shall I jump down? Or shall we run to the green cas­tle with me on your shoul­ders and Bac­chus on mine? I think you can do it. I be­lieve you can make it all the way.

She starts to move slow­ly. I stretch out my arms for bal­ance. But she does not pro­ceed in the di­rec­tion of the cas­tle. In­stead she lopes to the riv­er. Why are you head­ed to­ward the riv­er, love? She does not walk in a straight line, she weaves. She picks up speed even as she weaves. We are mov­ing at a smar­tish pace now. I feel the wind in my face. Bac­chus hangs on to my hair. The Con­tes­sa is full of sur­pris­es. I feel elat­ed. I feel elat­ed even as she runs head­long to­ward the river­bank. I feel us tip­ping, tip­ping for­ward. Bac­chus hangs on to my ears. A mo­ment of per­il seems im­mi­nent. And yet I am joy­ful. Very lit­tle is need­ed to be hap­py, re­al­ly. It is all with­in your­self and in your way of drinking.

Filed under Fiction on September 11th, 2026

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Care to Share?

by Robert WEXELBLATT

In­ter­view­er: Thank you for agree­ing to this. I know you give few interviews.

Au­thor: Sel­dom asked to.

In­ter­view­er: Let’s get right in­to it, then. Your work has been var­i­ous­ly de­scribed as ob­scure and dif­fi­cult, al­so su­per­fi­cial, am­a­teur­ish, dilet­tan­tish, con­sol­ing, in­spired, pro­found, provoca­tive, hu­mor­less, and wit­ty. How would you de­scribe your work?

Au­thor: Wide­ly ignored.

In­ter­view­er: That’s it? Two words?

Au­thor: Yes. That’s one word.

In­ter­view­er: I see this is go­ing to be a chal­lenge. Very well. Your work has been called both mod­ern and post-mod­ern. How do you clas­si­fy what you write? 

Au­thor: Con­tem­po­rary Amer­i­can literature.

In­ter­view­er: Very amus­ing. So, what do you most en­joy writ­ing on?

Au­thor: An old door held up by a cou­ple of fil­ing cabinets.

In­ter­view­er: I meant com­put­er or ball point, lined pa­per or plain, pen­cil and le­gal pad.

Au­thor: Foun­tain pen. 

In­ter­view­er: Re­al­ly?

Au­thor: My chief link with tradition. 

In­ter­view­er: Okay. This re­al­ly is go­ing to be dif­fi­cult.… Your on­ly nov­el won a prize. Why hasn’t there been a second?

Au­thor: Maybe there is.

In­ter­view­er: Oh? Un­fin­ished or unpublished?

Au­thor: Un­writ­ten.

In­ter­view­er: I was warned you’re dif­fi­cult. Okay, let me check my notes.… It says here that you’ve al­so won a teach­ing prize? Yes? What would you say is the most im­por­tant qual­i­ty in a teacher?

Au­thor: Re­mem­ber­ing.

In­ter­view­er: Re­mem­ber­ing? Re­mem­ber­ing what? Stu­dents’ names? Lec­ture notes?

Au­thor: That to teach is a tran­si­tive verb.

In­ter­view­er: You teach and you write. Do you do the one to sup­port the other?

Au­thor: I need both.

In­ter­view­er: How so?

Au­thor: Writing’s lone­some; teaching’s an ide­al form of so­cial life.

In­ter­view­er: So­cial life?

Au­thor: Sopho­mores don’t age; they’re al­ways nine­teen. And they have to listen.

In­ter­view­er: So, you like young people?

Au­thor: I’m com­fort­able with them.

In­ter­view­er: With post-adolescents?

Au­thor: I’m post-adolescent. 

In­ter­view­er: I was told — and it cer­tain­ly seems true — you’re giv­en to false modesty.

Au­thor: That’s a con­di­tion to which I aspire.

In­ter­view­er: Clever and eva­sive, con­firm­ing what you de­ny. Well then, have you got any ad­vice for as­pir­ing young writers?

Au­thor: I do.

In­ter­view­er: And that is?

Au­thor: Keep your bum on the desk chair.

In­ter­view­er: Okay. I’m go­ing to give up. Just one more ques­tion be­fore I do. You’re prolific.

Au­thor: Pro­lif­ic? For me, writ­ing is most­ly not writing. 

In­ter­view­er: Yet you keep writ­ing. Is that be­cause you love it?

Au­thor: There’s noth­ing I love more than writ­ing — and noth­ing I won’t do to avoid it.

In­ter­view­er: For example?

Au­thor: This interview.

Filed under Fiction on August 14th, 2026

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Care to Share?

by Alex DERMODY

Nathan stared at the half-eat­en cake on the kitchen ta­ble. He was down four pounds from last month. But should he eat the whole cake? De­spite his stom­ach hang­ing slight­ly over his shorts, Nathan thought he looked okay. That would change af­ter the cake. I’ll go to the gym lat­er. Burn it all off. Hav­ing set­tled on a plan, he ate more cake. 

Nathan’s dri­ve­way was made of tiny peb­bles. He heard a crunch­ing sound as tires rolled over the stones. He froze. There was still ic­ing left. He closed the cake box, stuck it in the fridge.

The front door flew open. In stepped his big sis­ter, Beth. She set a white buck­et filled with dirty wa­ter on the tile floor. By the tail, Beth pulled out a big­mouth bass. She said, “I’ve had it with this thing.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” the bass said. “My name is Billy.” 

Beth dropped the fish back in the wa­ter. “I’m cast­ing in the pond ear­li­er when Bil­ly here sur­faces, says we need to talk.”

Bil­ly hung over the rim of the buck­et. “A woman went in your sister’s house every night this week af­ter she left for work.” 

“That’s our lawyer. With what we’re pay­ing, she should be mak­ing house calls.”

“I’ve lived in your neigh­bor­hood pond five years now. The on­ly oth­er time I’ve seen this was the Carltons.” 

“Da­mon wouldn’t do that.” 

Nathan asked, “Who’s your lawyer?” 

Beth hes­i­tat­ed. “Gab­bie York.” 

Nathan said, “Come on.” 

“So what if they have a past? That was col­lege. An­cient his­to­ry. The fish is ly­ing. Da­mon said Gab­bie was on­ly over Mon­day night. I checked the cam­eras. Her car pulled in the dri­ve­way, and she was gone thir­ty min­utes later.” 

Bil­ly said, “The lawyer parked down the street the rest of the week. She en­tered through the back, through the pool’s screen door.” 

“Lies.” 

“Why would Bil­ly lie?” Nathan asked. “Be realistic.” 

Beth balled her fists. Look­ing around the kitchen, she saw a plate of cook­ies on the counter. “You’re eat­ing cook­ies for breakfast?”

Nathan felt his face turn red. “That’s not my nor­mal break­fast. I was hun­gry is all.” 

“Poor Nathan. Keep telling your­self that.” Then to Bil­ly, Beth said, “My hus­band isn’t a cheater. You’re a liar. I’m turn­ing you in­to a sandwich.” 

Bil­ly ig­nored the threat. He was con­cerned with Nathan. “I used to have an eat­ing prob­lem. There was this house, the John­sons, and they fed the fish piz­za. I was pow­er­less. If there was piz­za in the wa­ter, I was eating.” 

Nathan was em­bar­rassed by Billy’s con­cern. Prob­lem? There’s no prob­lem. Every­body eats. So what if I eat more than oth­ers? Food makes life bet­ter. He grabbed a cook­ie. Tak­ing a bite, he said, “Speak for your­self. I’m fine.” Nathan took an­oth­er bite, but this one tast­ed strange. He chewed slow­er, his mouth now dry.

Beth said, “I’ve heard enough. I’m fry­ing Bil­ly in peanut oil.” She picked up the buck­et and made for the door. 

Some­thing didn’t feel right to Nathan. He fol­lowed Beth out in­to the morn­ing light. “You can’t kill Bil­ly. He’s just a stu­pid bass. Move him to an­oth­er pond.” 

Beth paused. She lift­ed the buck­et in­to her truck bed. “Fine.”

“North Street pond is a good —” 

“I know how to move a fish!” 

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Beth looked ex­haust­ed. “What­ev­er.” 

Nathan went back in the house. He sat at the kitchen ta­ble, eat­ing cook­ies while go­ing over what hap­pened. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He went to the fridge and grabbed the cake box. His fork hov­ered over the ic­ing. He fin­ished the job. Look­ing in the mir­ror, Nathan felt shame. He drove to the gym. 

…

Nathan cast his line to the cen­ter of the pond. He reeled slow­ly, the wind whip­ping his gym shorts. The idea that Bil­ly wasn’t here filled him with dread. He need­ed to speak with the fish. It had been a month since he last ate a cook­ie or cake or any­thing with sug­ar. His body felt great, but men­tal­ly he was slip­ping. Be­tween the hol­i­days and his birth­day, Nathan’s crav­ings were es­ca­lat­ing. He hoped Bil­ly could help. 

A cir­cle of hous­es sur­round­ed the pond, and be­hind the pink one was a small dock. Nathan cast his line by the dock, jig­ging the bait slight­ly. He felt a large thump. His pole bent. He reeled. The fish jumped from the wa­ter — a gi­ant big­mouth bass — and splashed back in­to the pond. He was amazed, first at the fish, then at his line. The tug­ging dis­ap­peared. Nathan reeled with no re­sis­tance, but as he reeled, a small wake made its way to shore. 

“Bud­dy,” Bil­ly said. “Get this hook out of my mouth.”

Nathan held Bil­ly by the tail, the fish’s new weight strain­ing his wrist. “Bil­ly, is every­thing okay?” he asked, toss­ing the bass back in the pond. 

Bil­ly poked his head out of the wa­ter. “Things are bet­ter than okay. The peo­ple in the pink house, they throw out sour­dough bread every af­ter­noon. Have you tried sour­dough? It’s mak­ing me blow up like a whale, but I don’t care.” 

“Re­al­ly?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got it made. Be­sides hav­ing the best bread, this pond is stocked with the coolest fish. Have you ever met a trout? They’re hi­lar­i­ous. Why do you look up­set? Did some­thing happen?” 

Nathan re­gret­ted vis­it­ing the pond. He worked so hard to cre­ate this new healthy lifestyle for him­self, all to re­al­ize it was a house of cards. “I just came to check on you. I was worried.” 

“Like I told your sis­ter, I’m do­ing amazing.” 

“You saw Beth?”

“She vis­it­ed ear­li­er this week to tell me about the di­vorce. Good for her. She al­so told me about your di­et. You look great.”

“Thanks.”

“It seems like we’re all do­ing well.” 

“Are we? Bil­ly — do you know what hap­pens to fish your size? They stuff them and hang them on walls.” 

“What! Why?” 

“As tro­phies.”  

“Bar­bar­ic. Well, as scary as that sounds, don’t wor­ry. My days in this pond are num­bered. I met a la­dy fish. I know, I know. A play­er like me set­tling down. But it’s time. She’s from the pond across the high­way, so we’re mov­ing soon. I’ll lose all this weight once my sour­dough sup­ply is cut off.” 

“The pond across the high­way is be­hind a bak­ery. That’s where sour­dough comes from.” 

“Oh, re­al­ly? I had no idea.” 

“That pond is al­so a no­to­ri­ous fish­ing spot.” 

Bil­ly didn’t hear Nathan. An­oth­er fish popped its head out of the wa­ter. Bil­ly said, “This sexy scaly thing is my girl­friend, Talia.” 

Talia said, “It’s al­most time, Big Dad­dy. We bet­ter not miss the sourdough.”

“We won’t. I’ll be by the dock in a minute. Get that sweet tail over there and hold our place next to the red buoy.” 

Af­ter Talia swam away, Nathan said, “She seems… fun.”

“She’s the best. Don’t wor­ry about me, al­right? So I’m en­joy­ing the most de­li­cious bread of all time a lit­tle too much. It’s fine. I have every­thing un­der control.” 

“If you say so.” 

“Will you bring sour­dough to our pond-warm­ing par­ty next week?” 

“But you just said you were done af­ter the move?” 

“I meant af­ter the par­ty. Af­ter the par­ty, no more big Billy.” 

“Sure.” Nathan nod­ded. “I’ll see you then. Take care of your­self, Billy.” 

Nathan grabbed his pole and tack­le­box. Mov­ing through the tall grass on the way back to his truck, he tried to shake an odd feel­ing. He knew Beth’s biggest catch was mount­ed on her of­fice wall, and Bil­ly was a lit­tle big­ger than that. 

He sat in his truck. He didn’t start the en­gine. He picked at dirt un­der his fin­ger­nails, think­ing about his big sister’s di­vorce. She mar­ried a stranger. That was Beth’s re­al­i­ty. What was Nathan’s reality? 

It was a bright day. Nathan looked through the wind­shield of his truck. There was a donut shop across the street. He thought about Beth. About Bil­ly and the sour­dough. Nathan want­ed to feel good. He threw the truck in gear. He sped past the donut shop on his way to the gym. 

Filed under Fiction on July 31st, 2026

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