The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Category: Writing (page 1 of 38)

Poetry by Sandra White

For Your Convenience

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“Thirty-Teen,” a short story by Shaunna Quin

When I was a little girl, there was nothing I wanted to be more than a teenager. Continue reading

“Russell’s Rooms,” a short story by Kathleen Glassburn

“Stuck in Detroit: A Memoir of Christmas Past” by Janet I. Buck

Spending the holidays in the Detroit airport is an overrated experience, no matter how many faces of happy customers they have pasted in the corridors. Mark and I hadn’t seen his parents and siblings for three long years and we were looking forward to some great big hugs and long-awaited homemade pecan pie, only to be found in the confines of Dayton, Ohio. To make a long story short, we never made it there. The rest of the saga made a Chevy Chase Christmas look like a free honeymoon in Hawaii.

Now, Dad did warn us that they were having a little snow back there — courtesy of some lovely photo attachments sporting him toying with his neat little snow blower on the driveway. Since we get about two snowflakes every three years here in Southern Oregon, I thought the whole thing looked like a precious Rockwell painting. “Just a little snow,” as it turned out, stretched from their doorstep right up to New York City. Unaware of the rapidly deteriorating weather, we put a few magazines and a book in a carry-on and headed to the Medford airport.   Continue reading

Poetry by Connie Lee

The Hybrid’s Tale

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Poetry by Kurt Luchs

TSA

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“Ashram, 1985” by Janna Brooke Wallack

Excerpt from The Family Jones

Siddhi and I conquered I-95 from Miami to New York with thumb wrestling, hangman, and sleep. “Gonna be great for us, munchies…” Jackson muttered, waking us both up just in time for a look at the City skyline. I wondered if we would ever see home again, or if we even had enough money to live in the real world, and I whispered my worries to Siddhartha, but then he started to look down and wring his hands like he always did when he got scared, so I cut it out.

“The Catskills,” Jackson said, pointing his finger at the purplish shadows rising out of a never-ending bed of green forest. A mom would have packed snacks. The three whole years of whatever I’d experienced with my own mother had long been squashed into the forgotten corners of my brain by the next nine years of newer, shittier memories, like the past sixteen hours of Jackson driving ninety miles per hour, the constant beeeeep of his Fuzzbuster insisting he slow down, and all the while with him mumbling how this guru was going to help him straighten out, get right.

Jackson turned onto a gravelly road that led to a huge, grassy field in the forest, then up a hill past a pair of old brown barns where a bunch of goats stood around nervously, like they were waiting to take a math test. Another quarter mile from the barns, and Jackson pulled up to a circle of little cottages—yellow clapboard with lacy white porch rails—and parked at the sign that said, “MAIN OFFICE.”

On the lawn outside, a circle of naked women in socks upended themselves into headstands. They looked like a rack of lamb. Continue reading

The 100 Watt Brightly Shining Princess by Penelope S. Hawtrey

Positivity

Okay, here’s my plan to be more positive: I’m going to empty all my bank accounts of the cash in them. That will total $5.86. Let me dive into my Retirement Savings Plan and then I’ll have some real dough to play with! Who needs to plan for the future when you’re positive?  

Next, I’ll book a one-way ticket to Europe: London? Amsterdam? Ooh…Italy has unlimited gelato! I love ice cream anytime. It only makes sense I’ll make my new home there. I’ll live in eternal blissful happiness as I sip a cup of java at Caffè Florian in Venice in the morning and dive into unlimited pasta and one thousand flavors of ice cream in the evening.  

Responsibilities? What responsibilities? I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.  Or rather, I’m flying off to Europe with my pants firmly attached to an airplane seat. Maybe even in first class. Call me Rocket Girl.  

Addio! Continue reading

“Soulmate Inc.,” a short play by Neil McGowan

WILSON nervously sits in front of a desk holding a computer (or laptop). GENE knocks and enters and greets Wilson with a smile, hand extended for a handshake.

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“Practicing in the Dark” By: Rosalia Scalia

It’s March and too cold for Delia, who pulls her black wool scarf tighter around her neck and tugs her coat—missing three buttons—tighter around her body. Under the coat, her winter blue-plaid school uniform offers no protection against the chill. She holds a stack of textbooks against her body for added warmth and wishes she hadn’t lost her gloves. She longs for warmer temperatures, for spring’s kiss on the now-naked winter trees lining the streets. Her father, who has sayings for everything, once told her March comes like a lion, but leaves like a lamb. Today, the lion roars her to numbness. She reminds herself to remember to sew the buttons back on her coat and to possibly snag her mother’s gloves.

On Riverside Avenue she forces herself step by step toward the Inner Harbor, away from Mary Star of the Sea High School, knowing she must endure the cold for another twenty minutes before she reaches her neighborhood. First a piano lesson, then home to change, and then her cashier job at the grocery store where her mother knows the owner and finagled the under-the-table job. The stack of textbooks provides some protection against the cold air, but her arms ache from the weight. She sets the stack down on a nearby stoop and shivers in her thin coat until she picks them up again. The books hold her coat shut. A few days ago, she asked her mother for a warmer coat, but winter is nearly over, her mother said, adding that she’d get a new one next year. She also asked her mother to sew the missing buttons, which sat in a small, clear cup in her room, back onto her coat.

“You could do it yourself,” Ivy said. Continue reading

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