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What kind of stories are
contained in Silent Voices, Volume 4? Here is an excerpt from a section of the book called
"Whispers":
Liam Callanan — “Answer Me”
“How do we die, Dad?” he asked.
I held my breath for one full second, and then another, and I
started to think that this is how people die: they stop breathing. I
held my breath another second and still another, two more seconds
while I turned around to face him, then five or six seconds beyond
that as I turned back to the stove, really starting to feel it, the
water boiling, my lungs stalling and just the littlest part of me
hoping – pop! – this is how we die: something inside me blows and I
drop down dead.
Wendy Duren — “This Is Your Mother”
This was not always your mother. She used to volunteer mornings in
your kindergarten classroom, passing out juice, putting a stop to
the consumption of crayons, and hanging stick-figure artwork. Once,
she stayed up the entire night of the Tuesday before Thanksgiving
just so you could have a Pilgrim costume for Wednesday’s school
pageant. There was a time when she always had cassette tapes of
Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, and Engelbert Humperdinck in her car
and the two of you would sing along together, warbling the notes and
singing off key just to make the other laugh. And for a time, after
your father left, the cards, the gifts, the money that came from him
were always addressed to you in her handwriting.
Alex Espinoza — “The Gift”
Hannah wears an ivory chiffon dress with a beautiful lace bodice.
Her hair is pinned up in curls, and ringlets fall down and around
her ears. A silver tiara sits on her head. A silk shawl with beaded
ends is draped over her shoulders.
Dolores’ mother kicks her legs, grips the wheelchair’s handles like
she’s trying to get out. She speaks, and Vivian catches a few words
she knows—preciosa, pura, señorita.
Precious. Pure. Young lady.
David M. Booher — “Martha”
I open the door and cringe as it creaks -- Martha kept telling me to
oil the hinges. I just never thought it was all that important.
Blackness blankets the basement. I get goose flesh looking down into
that shifty darkness that promises nothing and everything at once.
The first two steps cling to the dim light spilling in from the
street and through the kitchen. The basement devours it, ravenous,
leaving the lower recesses a mystery.
Damian Newton — “The Cathedral”
Winter, the cold season of death, had passed, and spring brought
forth new life and hope. She felt like spring was dawning inside
her, too. She felt almost as if she were alive again.
But she knew that there was still a large section of her puzzle
missing, a void that she struggled to fill with the details that had
come back to her, but nothing would fit. She was missing perhaps the
most important part of herself and no amount of searching faces, or
the endless stretch of Hell, was filling that aching void.
Emily Rapp — “Scull’s Crossing”
Lotty had loved it when she called her Mom long before she became a
mother; the title held out the promise of exciting times to come in
their life as a couple. In those first years of marriage, she had
felt the way she did at their first Homecoming dance when they were
both new teenagers; he’d scooped up confetti and glitter off the
floor and thrown the mixture over her, sprinkling her hair and her
sweat-soaked fancy dress clothes. It was important to keep a sense
of wonder about your place, about your life.
Edward Belfar — “The Rule of Law”
So we had what to my knowledge was a first: a case of negligence
resulting from the careless handling of negative energy scooped out
of an aura. Mr. Angelino was seeking $350,000 in damages. The
negative energy, he claimed, had caused him to go bankrupt; caused
his live in girlfriend to leave him, taking her kid, to whom he’d
become a surrogate father, with her; and caused him incalculable
emotional distress.
Thomas Fuchs — “Fog”
"It gives you a different perspective," she thought to herself as
she
peered out the window at the gray stillness enshrouding her
neighborhood, but it wasn't until her husband turned on the
television
that she realized fully, for the first time, just how much she
treasured silence. She took the remote from him and turned it off.
He
looked at her with a question in his eyes then, because of the way
she
looked back, he just sat down on the couch. Not pouting, just
slouching, slowly adjusting to this new reality.
Susan Cross — “A Tenth Muse Lately Sprung” (Contest Winner)
“I-I don’t understand,” Norris stammers.
“I don’t either. You have this perfectly good series and you throw
it away for Chick Lit, menopausal Chick Lit at that. A gutsy move,
but . . .” Norris somehow finds his feet, rises. Filled with the
animal sense of bolt and burrow, he tries to navigate by instinct
from chair to door. “Norris!” This stops the author. “It worked.”
“Worked?” For a man who makes his living by words, Norris finds
himself curiously
tongue-tied.
“The publisher loves it. They want all you can give them. Ann Thrale
is the best thing to happen to your career since that first Norman
Richards mystery. Maybe the best thing ever.”
“They liked it?”
“Loved it.”
- - -
Peter Balaskas
Managing Editor
Ex Machina Press, LLC.
Volume 3
review • See Whispers
Volume 2
review • See Whispers
Volume 1
review • See
excerpts
ORDER Silent
Voices
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