Browsed by
Category: Fiction

Donal Mahoney: The Deli on Granville ?>

Donal Mahoney: The Deli on Granville

Patsy Foley Was Roly-Poly in 1947   It may have been the devil himself who prompted the kids in my schoolyard back in 1947 to chant “Patsy Foley’s roly-poly from eating too much ravioli.” At first, no one could remember who started the chant. Patsy, a sweet and ample child, was in the third grade. As happenstance would have it, I was in that same third grade, infamous already as the only boy wearing spectacles in our class. After I…

Read More Read More

Donal Mahoney: Paddy Murphy’s Wake ?>

Donal Mahoney: Paddy Murphy’s Wake

Paddy Murphy’s Wake   The priest had been there earlier and the rosary was said and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences. “Sorry for your troubles,” one by one they said, bending over Maggie Murphy, the widow silent in her rocker, a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket, the two of them much closer now than they had ever been. A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say, waked in…

Read More Read More

Charles Tarlton: The New Hire ?>

Charles Tarlton: The New Hire

THE NEW HIRE   This would be Hampton Davie’s third academic job in as many hard years since he’d got his Ph.D. in poetry at Winston. He started out prestigiously enough, teaching the introduction to American poetry and a seminar on Wallace Stevens at Bisby University, but that had not worked out. He’d quickly got another position, a little farther down the rankings, at Rolling Rock, but that, too, had dissolved in his hands. Now, he was at Button College,…

Read More Read More

Donal Mahoney: Behind the Barn With Carol Ann ?>

Donal Mahoney: Behind the Barn With Carol Ann

Behind the Barn with Carol Ann  Back in 1957, kissing Carol Ann behind the barn in the middle of a windswept field of Goldenrod with a sudden deer watching was something special, let me tell you. Back then, bobby sox and big barrettes and ponytails were everywhere. Like many farmers, Carol Ann’s father had a console radio in the living room, and every Saturday night the family would gather ‘round with bowls of ice cream and listen to The Grand Ole Opry….

Read More Read More

Donal Mahoney: It’s Almost Sunday Morning ?>

Donal Mahoney: It’s Almost Sunday Morning

      It’s Almost Sunday Morning          In the summer of 1956, any Saturday at midnight, especially when the moon was out and the stars were bright, you would be able to see Grandma Groth sitting on her front-porch swing waiting for her son, Clarence, a bachelor at 53, to make it home from the Blind Man’s Pub. He would have spent another evening quaffing steins of Heineken’s.          Many times that summer before I went away to college, I’d be strolling…

Read More Read More

Donal Mahoney: Mike Fitzgibbons and His Morning Paper ?>

Donal Mahoney: Mike Fitzgibbons and His Morning Paper

Mike Fitzgibbons and His Morning Paper   For 35 years, Mike Fitzgibbons had never missed a day driving off at 4 a.m. to buy the newspaper at his local convenience store. Snow, sleet, hail or rain couldn’t stop him. There was only one paper being published in St. Louis at the time but Mike was addicted to newspapers. He had spent his early years reading four papers a day in Chicago–two in the morning and two in the evening. He…

Read More Read More

Rosemary Jones: Notes to an Apprentice Sky Mixer ?>

Rosemary Jones: Notes to an Apprentice Sky Mixer

Notes to an Apprentice Sky Mixer      This morning, a new portion of sky. A piece of skylight blue that has travelled like a package in a freighter from an indeterminate field of orbit to land on my window sill. No address. No note attached from the sky mixer responsible. Scrutinize closely for evidence. This piece of sky is an elemental blue, the kind I’ve seen perhaps once or twice before. A rare breed, shunted off from a vaulted…

Read More Read More