Austin Downtown Arts: Fiction

Fiction titles from A-E | F-N | O-Z

Ferocity by Kelly Stern
Ten years old. When his father tried to talk to him about his mother, all he heard were things like "it's not your fault," "it was her decision, not yours," "there's nothing you could have done." When his father tried to explain why she had "taken her own life," he imagined her tearing her life out of her chest and dragging it twisting by one arm down the street.

FM Purgatory by Ricardo Avecedo
Night. The zombies are out in force and me, a disembodied Baron Sombati, gatekeeper of the other side. The power of music on the drug addled, raising them up or taking them down via the airwaves by the mere push of a button.

Frank by Christopher Hess
The yellow light falling on them from the single uncovered bulb overhead made them frown slightly. Strange, Frank thought, this is a nice building, one of the nicer ones in this part of town -- why wouldn't they have a cover for that bulb?

The Invisible Kiss by Sandra Beckmeier
Staring into the mirror, she winced at the thought of a spring and summer spent in retribution of ethereal love. Fate was calling to her in her sleep, maybe it was just the message, but not the warning. The mirror responded to her. "Sweet lady on the wall, don't worry about leaving it behind. Forget. Sharpen your tact, strengthen your wise, go to sleep and shut that eye.

Limbs by Sandra Beckmeier
A group of tribe members were sitting leg-locked around a small fire, with nothing between them but flames. There were unspoken things in the fire, myths, truths, treadmills and stories of mischief. It was time for rest. Stories were never a challenge, but tonight they were a bit challenged by the stories one boy would tell.

Maybe by Jenna Colley
The alarm buzzes and she glances over to the night stand. She knows what it says -- 5:30am just like it has every morning for as long as she can remember. She's been awake for hours even though it doesn't make a damn bit of sense.

Morning Sex by Manuel Gonzales
A hard rain, and fat drops hit her forehead, make her hair wet, and turn her blue shirt black. Maybe she's crying. I sit on the bed and watch her through the window. Her face blurs until I can't see her through the rain. I open the window, but the screen is wet, and still, I can't see. Doesn't take more than a slap to knock the screen out of the frame. I stick my head through the window and I feel the cold water run over my neck, down my shirt. Come inside? I ask.

No Promises by K. Marie Black
It is an ordinary day. I just walked through my apartment in much the same way as I have for the past eight years. Out the dining room window, the sun is shining, but it is shining in the way it does on Sundays and holidays, casting light that signifies the suspension of normal activity. However, it is neither Sunday nor a holiday.