Untitled by Johnna West

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Crickets In Quito

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Story by Alison Jean Kinney

 

I went out to the plaza to see what I could find.

A crouching ageless woman called out, PAN DE LECHE!

She was a soprano.

A tenor newspaper salesman started in, COMERCIO COMERCIO COMERCIO!

The ageless woman held out her bread, and sang her song once more. It was a lullaby now. I was looking for a lullaby.
“How much for the bread?” I asked.
“Twenty cents.”
 

Read the full story here: Crickets in Quito

THE BANANAS ARE SICK THEY’RE DYING ALL OF THEM

banana_delux_smStory by Alison Jean Kinney

When I arrived at the farm I found Gerald swaying softly in his rocking chair, the last glass of hard banana cider clenched in his hand. His harsh greeting was one of a pirate just having lost sight of his treasure, and he had a sad story to tell. I stood in the doorway shedding my things onto the worn wooden floor.
He burst into drunken tears, “The bananas are sick, all of them!” he said. “They’re all sick! They’re all dying!”
Read the full story here: The Bananas Are Sick…

Fatso’s Fried Pickles by A. J. Kinney

pickle0Story by Alison Jean Kinney

I have the impression that grandparents know just about everything. They know about love and war, and about god and ghosts and dirty jokes. They seem to know the history of just about every obscurity, and they know everybody’s business. I’m sure my grandparents knew all that too, I was just too shy to ask.

If I’d had the nerve, I might have asked my grandma all the gnawing questions of my childhood. Like,

“Grandma, where did fried pickles come from?”

“Well, let’s see,” she’d say. “Fried pickles… that’s a long story.”

 

Read the full story here: Fatso’s Fried Pickles