literature

Short Story: Torso in the Line

Torso in the Line

by

Joseph Devon

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Deric Cobb walked through Tribeca at five-thirty on a Wednesday evening.  It was mid-December and the days had become cold, short and dark.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked to work when the sun was visible.  He made his way from the 1/9 subway station down Franklin Street.

The neighborhood was sparse.  People were sparse, shops were sparse, restaurants were sparse.  Once Franklin Street came to an end he had the choice of turning north or south to walk around the block before reaching the West Side Highway.  He always chose to go around to North More Street.  That way he’d come onto Pier 25 from the north rather than having to cut through the line of trucks and enter the site in the middle.

As he turned onto North More Street the view changed.  He was leaving behind the close sheltered streets of southern Manhattan and was headed for the piers lining the Hudson River.  There was nothing left to block the wind as it came across the water and nothing to stop the view so that for the first time he could see open sky ahead of him instead of buildings and streets.

Turning off of North More he headed south on the West Side Highway, crossing west while continuing south.  This far down on the island the highway was just another road with traffic lights and intersections instead of the elevated freeway it became up by sixtieth street.  Already he could hear the low rumbling of the trucks lined up, waiting to turn onto the pier and dump their loads before driving out of the site and back to Ground Zero to fill up before driving up to the pier again in a loop that had been endless since mid-September. Read more

Popularity: 3% [?]

literature

Short Story: You’re Allowed to Order Takeout

You’re Allowed to Order Takeout

By

Joseph Devon

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“So,” Neil said to his son, Illiam. “I think that’s about it.” Neil was bent over, arms folded on his kitchen counter as he read a stained and flour-dusted piece of paper. Neil’s clothes were casual, almost threateningly so, the kind of lounge-about clothes that someone accumulates who almost never has the chance to lounge about, the taut seams of his jeans and bright, just out of the store, colors on his shirt showed no wear.

Illiam, eight years old and standing on a chair to occupy his own piece of counter facing his dad, was the opposite image. Pants torn at the cuff with the feint aura of grass stains on the knees that can’t quite be washed out. He was staring up at his dad with the expectant eyes of an eight year old son whose dad is about to do something wondrous.

Neil was looking back and forth from the recipe coated with dried flour paste to the imposing collection of ingredients he and his son had slowly dredged up from all corners of their kitchen over the past half hour. He picked up a box of baking soda and held it close to his nose, reading the fine print on the side where it explained how to get your whites whiter. “This is the same as baking powder, right?” He squinted as he read, his confidence fading. “Why would anyone eat something that you can use to clean bathroom tiles with?” Read more

Popularity: 6% [?]