Fiction Attic

Short Story

Threads of the Mountain, by Pamela Schoenewaldt

Even our name, Opi, is a shred, a bit-off rag-end of a name. It’s nothing next to Pescasseroli, a morning’s walk from Opi and the biggest city I’d ever seen. What pushed our ancestors up this mountain with our sheep and our tight little dialect? Beyond Pescasseroli, people stared at our men and ignored what they said, as if they spoke like beasts. I told Zia Carmela, “People ignore me no matter how I speak. I know I’m not pretty.” My Zia, already half-blind from lace-making, traced my profile with her finger and said, “Be proud, Irma; our family’s noses came from Greece before Rome was ever built.” I set down my needlework and stared into the fire, where the licking flames become high-prowed ships bearing warriors with our noses west to Opi.

Letter From

Istanbul, by Vince Donovan

We inspected the gloomy narthex (itself as big as a cathedral), its giant doors, and worked our fingers into the cracks of the granite and marble walls, trying to find the spirit of the place. Finally we walked into the church itself, where I instantly felt cold and lost in the space under the huge dome. It looms rather than soars, and when Catherine and I sat down on a marble step we were like mice cowering in a cold and empty mansion.

10 Questions With

Diana Evans, author of 26a

On nectarines, twins, and the best West London eatery: The Grain Shop on Portobello Road, a rustic, grainy place where they serve yummy healthfood in plastic containers that you can sit down and eat two doors down in the Mau Mau Bar if you buy a drink!

Martha O’Connor

On living with a writer, and the soundtrack to her debut novel: For The Bitch Posse, I listened to the Pixies’ Doolittle over and over and over again. It became almost a writing ritual for me. I still believe it is one of the greatest albums ever made.

The Tao of Wade

Wade Williams on sixties homes, second babies, and Gilead

It’s a 60’s ranch-style, the kind with the dim, cool, carpeted den that’s perfect for watching afternoon cartoons and Andy Griffith reruns, and it’s in a retro neighborhood that looks just like the Wonder Years. It even has that washed-out, gold-tinted light of movies from the sixties, with those little black flecks swirling around, and people in that neighborhood kind of jerk around when they move.

Quoth the Raven

Bill Hipps on the beloved and elusive Anca of Humburi