e c l e c t i c a
f i c t i o n
e c l e c t i c a
f i c t i o n
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole piece!)
"I don't see a fire," Anne said.
"You never see it," I said.
"I don't see smoke."
No one else was in the street. No one else was coming down.
"Where's the fire engine?" she said.
"It's coming."
Duncan White
The woman does not call his number and then hang up. She does not drive to his house at night and check to see if his lights are on. And if his lights are off she does not drive to the house of his new girlfriend to see if his car is parked out front and whether the lights there are off or on, and she does not even know the address of the new girlfriend.
Linda Falkenstein
When I learned the first ten numbers of calculations, I came to know that Hussani Poweley was a human being. Though it is usually the study of humanities that enables us to recognise Man, in my case it was mathematics.
Nasrullah Khan
"There's a spider," she said.
We looked at her.
"It's on the bath. It's big and black."
Anne looked at me.
I didn't say anything.
"Wait here," Anne said.
Duncan White
To his sisters' embarrassment and his father's disgust, as Fabio neared puberty he took to dancing, ecstatic and often naked, on nights when the moon shone full. But his mother proclaimed, "My son, the genius," and Fabio's sanctimonious smile was set for life.
David King
"People are still stunned here." You never saw anything like it. It's the never-ending living room drama, and it's real. For the first time I can recall, the stage is remarkably clear of any other actors, or a set, for that matter. It's more like a succession of monologues, spoken in weary, unbelieving tones; a ticker-tape parade of "facts."
Joshua Levy
Devastated, our town was. We held our breath for so many weeks, hoping each morning that the Gazette laying harmlessly on our top step would unfold to reveal the end to the suspense. "Found!" we hoped we would read. But all we found was that Johnny Gosh was missing.
Eric Prochaska
Susie removes her coat and hat. Her hair is dirty, and she wears it in a braid down her back. Her plaid shirt clashes with her striped pants. Mom asks her, as she always does, why she doesn't wash her hair more often. I don't say anything. Mom's trousers are on backwards; the two of them are starting to be a matched set. I would kill for a Coke.
Carolyn Steele Agosta
