National Short Story Month: “Motherland”

In honor of National Short Story Month, we’re taking a second look at some of the best works of fiction that have appeared in The Furnace Review. Here, from Fall 2010, is “Motherland” by Anthony Jones.

It took Grace Silverstein three tries to dial the phone number of her younger sister; a number that she had had memorized for the last ten years. That’s how bad her hand was shaking. When it finally started ringing on the other end, she pressed the telephone close against her face and cowered down into the sofa so that she could just see over the leather cushion into the mouth of the hallway. From the strained, nervous expression on her face there seemed to be something lurking in the shadows there–a deformed presence that disturbed her deep down in her guts.

“Jeanine,” Grace whimpered into the phone.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Jeanine. It’s Grace.”

There was a slight pause on the other end. “What is it, Grace?”

“Gabriel’s just stabbed me.” Read more….

National Short Story Month: “Stitches”

In honor of National Short Story Month, we’re taking a second look at some of the best works of fiction that have appeared in The Furnace Review. Here, from our Winter 2010 issue, is “Stitches” by Tina Higgins.

From the cab of his dad’s semi, Jesse watches rows of corn blend together. It’s dusk and the world feels blurry, unsure of itself. His dad has a cigarette tucked behind his ear and one smoldering between his fingers. Jesse reaches for the half empty pack and lights himself one.

“Hey, grab us a beer.” His dad’s voice is thick with phlegm. He coughs once, rolls down his window and spits into the wind. The beer isn’t quite cold enough but it doesn’t matter. They are maybe five miles from their last stop, an arm-pit-bar off the highway called The Chalet. The front had a peaked roof that was near collapse trying to look like some fancy ski resort, an obvious after thought when someone thought up the name years ago. It was like any other bar they stopped at; dark, smoky, with a musty smell like wet towels left to dry in the corner of a stone-wall basement.

The bar was lined with a dozen or so regulars who talked about the kinds of things all bar regulars talk about; weather, women, and the good-ol’-days. Right off, his dad made a few friends. He could do that when he wanted to, make a pal out of a stranger with just a few words. He got them laughing, a verbal tool Jesse was still trying to master. Read more….

National Short Story Month: “Beirut”

In honor of National Short Story Month, we’re taking a second look at some of the best works of fiction that have appeared in The Furnace Review. Here, from our current issue, is “Beirut” by E. Farrell.

Beirut rose hot out of old ashes while Greg was not tuned in. He was setting out brie and sesame crackers and could not have said who was talking or precisely what they were talking about. Something about the war, about a suicide attack in Baghdad or Kirkuk, maybe both. Greg had set the tray down and cradled his drink, a scotch and soda that Ann had made a little lighter than he’d pour himself, heard the soft wail of a sax-ophone from the sound system’s speakers across the room, and thought idly that Jim’s wife, Jennifer, seated opposite him on the couch, had a well-turned leg – not that it mattered but enough was showing to catch your eye. Then someone – maybe Jim, maybe Robert – had asked if anyone had heard about the bombing in Lebanon, and Madeleine, Robert’s partner, had said, “No, what happened?”

“Journalist.” Jim speaking now. “Criticized the Syrians.”

“Where?” Madeleine, a bit older than Robert but not a mismatch, was sipping a daiquiri in an armchair to his left.

“Beirut,” Jim said, across the coffee table from her in the bentwood rocker. “Bomb under the street. Dropped the car thirty meters away and pulled the façade off an apartment building.”

“Jesus,” she muttered. Greg found himself gripping his tumbler tightly, lifting it, letting a big draft of the slightly smoky liquid slide down his throat. Something alive in him now that had not stirred in years. To no one in particular, Madeleine said, “Beirut – must be a horrible place.”

“It’s not.”

Silence for a long moment before Greg realized that he had spoken, that the five others, even Robert right next to him on the love seat with a hand stretched toward a bowl of macadamia nuts, were staring at him. Feeling a flush rising, he raised his glass to kill the scotch. Read more….

Photo: “beirut” by Roobee