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"Where're we gonna go? It's a fucking downpour," my brother shouts. Everybody's quiet. "I'm out again," I go, almost as soon as I'm dealt the cards. He sits there for a minute. Then freaks he turns the whole table freaks over. Later when everything's quiet I'm still in the kitchen. You can see a divot in the linoleum where the table edge hit. I'm rubbing my leg. My brother's in his room. My mother's in hers. There's tuna in my sock. My throat's still killing me. There's not enough self-pity to go freaks around. "He your brother or not?" my father's asking me. "Yeah," I tell him. "So you wanna help him?" he wants to know. Well, there's what we want, and what we do, I've figured out, even then. "Not really," I tell him, sitting there. Not really, I tell myself now. © Jim Shepard current issue archive news about us from the editors submit links From our fiction archive “The Magnolia Under Glass” Kenny Nowell Issue 13 - Spring 2004 "Our Father Who Walks on Water Comes Home With Two Buckets of Fish" Peter Markus Issue 2 - Winter/Spring 2001 Photo ©
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