The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Month: January 2017

Riding The Red-White Caterpillar by Penelope Hawtrey

Park and Ride and I. January 26th. Ottawa. This is how we meet.

I park my car and then grab my overstuffed knapsack that rests on the seat beside me that holds various snacks and workout clothes. I turn and reach behind me, and blindly grapple to locate my brown leather purse that I flung on the floor of the backseat. My second bag weighs more than any Army Cadet has ever had to carry during a march.

“Ah! There you are!” I say to no one in particular. Locating both bags, I push my car door open as white snow whips against my face feeling like hundreds of pin pricks against my cheeks. The snow enters my Honda civic and dances around inside. With that, I stick my foot out. And that’s where we meet.

Snowbank and I; SNOWBANK 1, ME 0.

Snow worms wiggle between my hiking boot and ankle and then, smoothly shimmy their way down to my heel. When my feet hit the pavement, the cold ice crunches against my sock and bottom of my boot until it is pulverized into a puddle. And now, I have a puddle at the bottom of my boot. Continue reading

“If It Is Beautiful, It Is Passing,” by Robert Fay

Daniel Kearns didn’t believe he had much control over outcomes. Life came at him rapidly, inexplicably, and reacting was what mattered. The universe was a vague, dumb expression of indifference and he wasn’t the center of anything. This outlook was partly the influence of his father, who exhibited a Depression-era, knock-around humility now absent in the culture. But there was also his long, drawn-out ancestral inheritance, a French-Irish melancholia born in the hedgerows of Normandy. They said his people had been French Huguenots centuries earlier. The Catholics had reviled them, so they’d fled to Ireland, where they eventually became Catholic there anyway. It didn’t make any sense to him, but somehow the feeling of being lost, misplaced, had its origins in this generational saga, and he would have accepted this fate if he hadn’t thought so much about love and war.
Continue reading

“Mrs. Fubbs’ Front Parlor,” by Caitlin Allgood

I tend to pick at things.

I pick at scabs.

I pick at boogers.

I pick at my husband’s inability to clean the toilet with anything other than a one-ply square of toilet paper and some spit.

I pick at other people’s opinions.

I pick at my own opinions.

I pick at myself.

 
Continue reading

“Letter to the Stepdaughter I Might Have Had,” by Caitlin Johnson

You hate me. I can respect that.

After what your momma did to your daddy–

the lies like frozen honey, too cloudy

to look through–you can’t trust

a woman near him, like you have

an allergic reaction from proximity

alone, no need for a sting.

Continue reading

“Jelly Bean Squish,” by Tom W. Miller

As David unwrapped his arms from around her, Jocelyn felt as if a down comforter were being ripped away and her skin exposed to the cold night air.  Her fiancé’s mere presence always seemed to raise the temperature of the room a couple degrees.   His tall build, muscular frame, and chiseled jaw would quicken the beat of any woman’s heart.  His position as an up and coming trial lawyer at a prestigious firm advertised intellect and ambition.  His kindness and empathy indicated that he would not only be an outstanding lover and provider, but also a best friend.

David pointed the remote at the television and paused the episode of Masterpiece.  Jocelyn’s past boyfriends would suffer through episodes of the British drama series with her, but she knew they prefered sports or action movies.  When David, knowing nothing of Jocelyn’s preferences, had first shared his love for the Masterpiece shows, Jocelyn had felt destined to marry this man.

David stood up and walked toward the kitchen.  “A little peckish,” he said.  “Want anything?”

“What are you getting?” asked Jocelyn.  Please, she thought, don’t let it be

“Just a few jelly beans.  Want anything else or something to drink?” Continue reading

© 2018 The Furious Gazelle

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑