the stories

Family has been on my mind, and many of our writers had the same idea. This year’s writers shared moments in their character’s lives, beguiling us with funny moments and tragic happenings. Many of the stories we chose feature family members fighting to stay together or fighting to be part of each other’s lives. But even those who were not born to each other found solace with those they journeyed with: “When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching — they are your family” — Jim Butcher.

This year, ORP’s family grew with a record number of submissions. And with this great joy comes the crushing disappointment of rejecting even more. We applaud the effort and care taken in every story, and every moment spent agonizing over every word.

— Alaa El Fadel
Editor, Emerging Voices in Fiction

Depending on which dictionary you use, reading is defined differently. My favourite is: ‘Reading is the cognitive process of looking at written or printed symbols and understanding their meaning.’ (Study.com)

In this submission cycle, I have had the pleasure of looking at written work and deciphering its core meaning; indulging in the various worlds and metaphors presented. Every year, I am impressed with the work sent to us, with the creativity behind the telling of each story. I have enjoyed peeling back each layer to discover what lies within. Maya Angelou wisely said, ‘There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.’ I wholeheartedly agree. It was an honour reading the submissions and being a part of each storyteller’s journey.

— Michelle Tanmizi
Reader, Emerging Voices in Fiction

It has been our joy and honour to receive a record number of submissions this year. As in the past, these were from all over the globe, nearly half of them from diverse writers. Of course, AI tried to gate crash the party, but we managed to keep it out...hopefully. The stories in this issue are a mirror to the world we live in – they are about the oppression of majority culture, capitalistic greed, isolation, mental health and grief. Equally, they are about carving beauty from the mundane, about receiving gifts of kindness when you least expect, about solidarity, care and compassion – all feeding one the most fundamental human needs – that of connection. They are a nod to the immense capacity of the human mind to look the world in the eye, take it in in its entirety and yet, not lose sight of all the love, light and laughter. We hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

— Nidhi Arora
Fiction Editor

Jorge Luis Borges once said, "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." Even though my idea of Paradise isn't quite that of a website on a screen lined with digital ink, I think this issue still manages to hold a similar kind of magic because of the library of emotions the stories here present. I suggest reading through it with wonder. Wonder at the capacity of humans to feel so deeply, experience so viscerally, and express so beautifully — even when it comes to the most mundane moments. The current world we live in seems adamant about making us forget how much beauty we hold in our humanity. I found that each of these stories serves as a warm invitation to look back into our souls and marvel at the intricate valleys of love, longing, doubt, and, despite everything, hope that we have hidden inside. To me, curating this issue has been a charming ride, and I hope that reading it takes you on equally rewarding journeys of your own.

— Passant Eltarek
Associate Fiction Editor

A Gift From Greta

Melanie Jones

This Tuesday would be different. Greta was coming to visit. It had been five years, and he hadn’t seen her since the day she’d brought him over on the ferry to live with Big Mama. I’ll send for you soon as James and me get settled in Chicago, he remembered Greta saying. But she never did settle. Soon after Chicago James, there was Brooklyn Charlie and San Francisco Pete. His mother was what Big Mama called flighty. Nevertheless, she’d written to say that she might be passing through. That was as much as he could figure out from the little piece of stationery on Big Mama’s nightstand before he’d heard her heavy footsteps moving down the hall. He wondered what her visit might be about, but asking Big Mama for more information would result in a good slap, considering he wasn’t supposed to know about the visit in the first place. He’d remain quiet and wait.

Spirits

Erica Gelman

This is what Camilla was currently doing: Camilla was watching the evening news. On it, there were three rapes and two deaths, at least, so far—two shootings in the south side of the city. Also, in the Lincoln Park Zoo, there was either the disappearance, escape, or kidnapping of one Siberian Tiger, the largest tiger species on earth, currently. He had vanished, dissipated into thin air, seemingly out of the blue; nothing in the entire enclosure, the entire zoo, entire world had been touched or displaced even a particle except for him, this mighty beast, gone.

Ordinary Evil

KC Barrientos

You glance at the side of his face: his barely trimmed beard, the ruddy complexion beneath flax curls, the beginnings of crow’s feet crowning his eyes when he laughs loudly at every half-hearted joke you tell. He has the air of someone who found long ago what he’d been meant to do all along, patrolling the streets like a familiar guardian and waving at townies while receiving commendation for the difference he makes in the community.

Through the dust storm

Corie Hudspeth

The water in the pot bubbles up. Higgins stares out the small kitchen window, the black of it reflecting his face, or a steamed version of his face. He and his father have kept a modest garden that produces little, just some radishes, carrots, and snap peas. They keep the garden at the insistence of his father’s need to believe he still runs this land, and that this land still provides. But the animals have long been gone. The fences are all leaning, and the barn, sheds, and stables are threatening collapse; the wood of them all the color of cold ashes. Higgins wonders if Dodd will say anything about it. How the place looks barren and abandoned. But with their father getting up in the night to put the ghosts of loose cows back behind fences, Higgins sees the decay as a necessary reminder. There are no horses, cows, or goats roaming loose in the night anymore.

fair market value

Hailey Winningham

The house had been in need of repair for as long as he could remember. There was always something: roof shingles falling off, porch steps sagging in the middle, gutters pulling loose from their brackets. He sometimes thought that if he ever fixed everything at once, the place might not recognize itself and simply fold in from the shock.

unbridled joy

Paul Farwell

My shoes don’t fit. Tell that to Cooper and Cooper says no one cares about your shoes. I care. Born with bad feet. One shoe loose, the other tight. Damn. Can’t stand right. Can’t sit. Can’t go anywhere right. But explain that to Cooper. Cooper don’t listen. He look down at me. You have ugly shoes, he say. Too bad.

Drive-by ID

Cotton O'Connell

Officer Santora tells Derek and me not to worry — it’ll only take another minute, five at most. But my little brother is worried. It radiates off him, the way he shifts his weight between feet and chews his thumbnail. 

My worry is different. I’m afraid Derek will mouth off to Santora, and then this thing, which was nothing, will become something.

Pets and Other Deaths

Jason Herman

When they arrived home, they found the house half-emptied. Half the dishes had been taken, half the chairs around the dining room table, half the small appliances. The pictures she wanted had been pulled down, leaving empty spaces on half the walls. He imagined her white minivan in the driveway, the one they had bought together, the hatch lifted open, the back stuffed with chairs and boxes and lamps with their shades removed, their cords neatly wrapped around their bases. What good was it to have half of everything, of anything? Some things resisted half-ness, only a whole would do. The kids for example.  

Moonshine

M. Guillermo

Mom was late again. The second day in a row. So I decided to walk home this time, and told Ms. Janice Mom said I could even though she hadn’t. What she really said was the opposite: “Don’t walk on that highway under any circumstances, you hear?” But if I’d waited any longer, they’d have sent me to the principal’s office, and it’s awful in there. It smells like something old and dying, and Principal Hutchins won’t stop. She goes on and on about Jesus and the Bible, and how we have to be good little children or else get punished. I wasn’t going to sit through that again, no way. I’d rather chance it.

It’s Nothing, Really

John Barrett Lee

"Hello, William," she said at last. "It's been a long time."

The way she said it — not accusing, not warm — made it worse. Familiarity settled in without bringing anything useful.

"I'm sorry," I said, and then, because that wasn't quite it, added, "I know your face, but I just can't place you."

She nodded as if she'd expected to hear it, and said nothing.

Christmas for Vegetarians

Paul Curley

Every other year is a St. Louis Christmas. Lindy grew up here, so she doesn’t go crazy over snow the way the kids and I do. On the way from the airport, we rubbernecked at the stuff that had been plowed to the side of the highway, remnants from a recent storm. It was grayish, but it was snow. I half expected our son, Max, to say something like, This snow sucks the big one, but he didn’t. Lindy was quiet on the drive, the kind of quiet that comes from worry.

Monosex Spieces

XIN GUO

“Don’t give people a reason to blame you,” she said.

“Why would they blame me for doing those things?”

She cut me off before I finished.

“How should I know? Good girls just don’t.”

At the time I mistook her caution for provincial paranoia, the residue of a generation that had learned to survive by anticipating violence before it appeared. I believed education would exempt me from that logic, and fear just belonged to people without language for the world.

The Woman on the Shore

David Rea

He can tell the woman is dead before he reaches her. It is the way her body is positioned, twisted like a rag doll. There is a map of cuts, scratches and bruises across her face and arm; the sea has cared as much for her corpse as it does driftwood, tossing her against the craggy shoreline and dumping her behind this rock; a final wave has thrown her forearm over a tyre. Her hair holds droplets of seawater, resembling tiny balls of mercury, and the blue abaya beneath her life jacket is soaked and torn.

What I Will Do

India Choquette

I will feed your cat if ICE takes you away.

It was a joke I told as you retrieved your cat from the hallway. We both laughed, you with the slight gap between your teeth, the old white cat in your arms, a hand braced against the peeling drywall. As we recovered, I caveated with the classic, “Gotta laugh or you’ll die crying,” and you kissed the cat’s head, casually, instinctively, automatically.

I remember that moment as I stand in the silent hall. I was worried about how I’d get into your apartment, but the door is ajar.

A Promise or Warning

Arno Bohlmeijer

As crooked as beautiful, the naturist area is cleverly sheltered, but never deserted. Forest Lake has full green banks and coves among miles of woods and fields. Motorboats are not allowed, and the parking lots are out of sight.

 On divinely quiet days the odd cyclist or hiker will roam and retreat. On public holidays fun-makers are clumsy in hired rowing boats, on surfboards and plastic waterbeds, tumbling and shrieking ‘from far’, with peeks at the nude people, who may venture through the fences of plants and reeds. Careful, don’t lead ‘visitors’ into weird temptation! A glimpse of a tanned bum or “something even better” can drive them hysteric.

Infinity Forever and Ever

Cuyler Meade

Jenny listens to the cattails in the morning, their pit-pit-pit against the soft flesh of her fingertips, or the tik-tik-tik against her chipped, chewed nails. She walks fast, or slow, or whatever speed she wants because she has nowhere to be and only time.