Fiction of the Day
The Beautiful Salmon
By Joanna Kavenna
I’ve always loved salmon. Not to eat, as I don’t eat fish, but I’ve always loved salmon in general because salmon jump and no one knows why.
I’ve always loved salmon. Not to eat, as I don’t eat fish, but I’ve always loved salmon in general because salmon jump and no one knows why.
Trudy threw a jug across the room. It didn’t reach the opposite wall, it didn’t hurt anybody, it didn’t even break. This was the jug without a handle, cement-colored, with brown streaks in it, rough as sandpaper
He phoned his wife at her lover’s apartment. She asked him to repeat himself. He was sobbing and unintelligible. He wanted her to come home and collect her clothes.
The Follansbees’ Christmas party was at tea-time on Christmas Day, and it was for all ages. Ignoring the fire laws, the big Christmas tree standing between the two front windows in the living room of the Park Avenue apartment had candles on it.
The house to themselves. Children with the house to themselves. When they were still children, what wild release that signaled; romping from room to room, all lights burning, bedtime banished
During the Watergate Era, there were several periods when certain members of Congress discovered that they could gain a day’s headlines by righteously denigrating our civilian and military clandestine resources.
Sissy isn’t a small-town girl at heart—only through a steady refusal of circumstances, luck and love, to align themselves her way. Two years ago, Sissy’s mother left Iowa with her boyfriend for L.A.; now they manage a trailer park of unpaved lanes and old palms whose lowest branches are dead, dry fans.
The essence of espionage is duplicity. A clandestine operation without successful deception is not a clandestine operation. In no other field of human endeavor is the widely denigrated maxim concerning justification of means by ends still held in such high regard.
My new boy friend is named Alexander. He is a dumpling of a man. We have reached the point in our relationship where we have begun to speak our histories.
I know more secrets than any man I have ever met. My neighbor, Harlow Pearson, was a gambler, although this was never a secret and many people knew about it, even when he was in Congress.
Ten miles to the south, the road on which they drove turned inland, crossed the mountains on the spine of Baja, and ran for thirty miles within sight of the Sea of Cortez.