Posts Categorized: Fiction

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IR ONLINE FICTION: “A Lineage: Written but Never Sent” by Delaney Heisterkamp

Here is a true thing: honey bees operate within their species as a collective consciousness. In hives, information passes between ancestor and offspring so that each generation hatches equipped with the intact history of their predecessors. In the span of one hundred and twenty-two days, the honey bee lives, grows old, and dies, but the hive’s memory spans decades.

Here is an untrue thing: I fear the day you do not recognize me. In reality, I fear that I have already abandoned you with my indifference.

Ten years ago, you bested your grandchildren in games of sunka and Scrabble. Seven years ago, you could not remember the name of the street you raised your daughters, my titas, on. Lola, this is my shame: that I have not tried to know you until now, after so much has been lost.

I feel I must write down all I remember. I fear it will not be enough.

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IR ONLINE FICTION: “FLOAT” by Meg Matthias

The landlord takes one look at the monster and says: I can’t do anything about that.

I found it yesterday, Helen says. She feels like nudging it with her foot or something, but she’s still worried it’s mad about last night. She had come home from her temp job and sat on the floor with an afghan and drank a six-pack on an empty stomach and watched eight hours of People’s Court, and then unsteadily made her way into the kitchen galley where the monster had appeared and almost tripped over it. Look, she says, Can’t you write this up under pest removal or something?

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IR ONLINE FICTION: “Genesis” by Sara Perkins

I adore Grimes, a self-taught indie musician who I saw live before I knew who she was. I was seventeen and had bought tickets to see Lana Del Rey at Klipsch Music Center with my friend, Eric. I only bought the tickets because I knew Eric liked her. I thought he was cool, with his long hair and surprisingly expansive knowledge of pop culture, and I wanted to spend more time with him. Maybe a week before the concert, I mentioned offhandedly that Lana’s opener was a cute Canadian synth-pop artist named Grimes.

“Are you kidding? I fucking love Grimes,” Eric exclaimed with wide eyes. We were sitting in the courtyard of our old high school eating lunch. I didn’t think Eric ate enough, so I would pack extra food to give to him. I thought he was humoring me, because I never fathomed that he would know an indie Canadian artist, and I expressed so. I shouldn’t have been surprised that just because I didn’t know Grimes at the time, Eric didn’t as well. He was a collector. He had shelves filled with records, CDs, books, and DVDs. He fascinated me and he always had since we had that middle school art class together. Eric was tall and all bones. It was like somebody took a normally proportioned person and stretched him out just a little too long. He shaved his head when he was sixteen and hadn’t cut it since. His blonde and wavy hair had just reached an overgrown stage where it kissed his angular shoulders. My mother once asked me if Eric was gay because “he’s just so pretty for a boy.” The ambiguity of his sexual orientation, along with his androgyny, had only increased over the years.

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IR ONLINE FICTION: “Padre” by Cam Rentsch

My father voted for Donald Trump. He was born in Torrance, California, named Juan Luis Ramirez. His parents, migrant farm workers, left him and his siblings as wards of the state when he was three. As far as I know. Tumultuous years later, he was adopted by a white man and had his name changed to John Luis Baker. He and Mr. Baker moved to rural Ohio, and my father, I guess, stopped being Mexican. I didn’t grow up with la cultura, and neither did he, really.

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IR ONLINE FICTION: “P.H.A.C.” by Cam Rentsch

David, who I’m sure is on to bigger and better things than teaching “Intro to Fiction Writing”, read us the end of Tobias Wolfe’s “Bullet in the Brain” in that special sincere and awed voice that writers save for reading the words of other writers: “for now Anders can still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant, They is, they is, they is.”

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