Fiction
"I want a fresco," Michel's mother Mireille announced one autumn afternoon. She had just emerged from a three-day migraine, and her face was flushed, her eyes burning and glittery, her little hands pale as candles.
Someone has stolen my glasses again. I suspect Sylvia Shapiro because she can't quit crowing about how darling she thinks they are. I think they're gaudy. My daughter Dorothy bought them for me, but now they are gone. I also suspect Bobby.
Carter Conway presses the tip of his index finger against the point of his pencil. He lifts his desk lid to check his other pencils. "Fifth graders," he says sharply, like a teacher. "I hear chattering in this classroom.
They are long forgotten by anyone living. I remember, we say. But we are so often wrong. We know something from the archive of photographs and script and type.
No one expected the water to be warm enough to swim in, and they hadn't brought suits or towels. She'd not been in a pool for years, not once since Ben died, and even longer since she'd gone swimming in a lake.
The summer Pastor Frank Mueller lost his mind, it rained so hard and so quickly in the town of Ryeford, Illinois that the waters of the marsh spilled into our basements and flooded Gary Avenue from North High all the way to the tracks.
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Wisconsin Academy Offices
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53726
Phone: 608.733.6633
James Watrous Gallery
3rd Floor, Overture Center for the Arts
201 State Street
Madison, WI 53703
Phone: 608.733.6633 x25