Welcome to Forth’s Fiction section. Positioned as its own online fiction magazine, this area of Forth presents a variety of unique, exclusively published pieces of fiction writing by established and up-and-coming creative writers. Enjoy!
Mr. Jaffe is sixty years old. His white hair and grey mustache give him a look that some call distinguished. His body is toned from years of tennis and jogging. He and Mrs. Jaffe are vacationing at the luxurious island house, Once Upon a Tide in Sint Maarten. They are welcomed by the staff,…
I walked out of the Times Square Marriott Marquis and headed straight over to Junior’s. I had been craving cheesecake from Junior’s since the last time we’d come to New York for a show. We tried to come at least twice a year, but last year when Maureen (I’d called her Mo since college) had…
A drive thru taco sign floods an empty parking lot in a pool of astral moon. A jittery spectral presence after Motel 6 fever dreams, in crumpled chinos, you’ve worn that Black Flag T-shirt for two weeks straight. A Gatorade and a cigarette, furtively you watch headlights on the highway, horizon quivering geometric orbs of…
“I was day dreaming, I wasn’t asleep.” Irais insisted. Antonio laughed, short bursts like hiccups. “Sí, pues. Eyes closed. Snoring—” “I don’t snore!” “I know bet—” A flash of light and triple explosions. Irais turned so quickly she lost her footing and grabbed Antonio’s jacket to keep from falling off the low wall. He pulled…
Very rare: blue moon, bright Mars. Both rose just after sunset that late May evening. I stayed out in the backyard gazing up into the night sky until they were nearly straight overhead. So vivid, they appeared to tremble. Astronomers called their alignment “in opposition”. That seemed apropos; my ex-wife had moved out earlier that…
The witch lived in one of the houses facing the field where we played and every now and then, she would emerge in a faded kameez that reached her ankles, a book under her arm, puffing furiously at a cigarette. We were warned not to talk to the witch, who was, our parents…
When my father was in the late stages of terminal lung cancer—chemo and two operations had not slowed it down—a group of his friends came to our house to visit him. They had been drinking. Giacchino Palmieri, his godson, the loudest among them, slurred and slobbered greetings to my father, who was already in pajamas…
They told me that I died one autumn night. Lying in the empty bathtub, at that rented noisy apartment, while the water ran through my dressed up body. It was warm water, though. And my jeans, the shoes and shirt were all soaked. There were no signs of violence, there were no marks on the…
Fra Angelico Makes Two Cappuccinos for Mark Rothko The Great Artistic Studio in the Sky, where our story takes place, is a spacious area with all the clear northern light that any artist could want. It is conveniently located in an area that has all the amenities of midtown Manhattan such as delis and coffee…
Welcome to Saint Angel, William Luvaas’s third novel (Anaphora Literary Press, March 2018), chronicles a small enclave of California nation during a severe drought. I met with William Luvaas recently in Pasadena to discuss his new novel while the SoCal fires raged nearby. Welcome to Saint Angel is the story of a loose-knit…
