Amarillo Bay Contents
Volume 5 Number 4
We are pleased to present the final issue of our fifth year, published on Monday, 3 November 2003. We hope you enjoy browsing through our extensive collection of fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry! (See the Previous Issues list to discover the works in our collection, including the ability to search through the issues.)
by Samuel Snoek-Brown
It'd been a month nearly since he'd impulsively bought the cell phone for the feed business, and Lemuel hadn't seen any use for it until that day in San Antonio when the semi tipped and stopped traffic flat. Some people had killed their engines, and Lemuel killed his, too. He left the windows up against the winter snap, but he took out a white-tipped Swisher anyway and he let the smoke rest up at the roof of the old Ford's steel cab. Sometimes he turned to check the feed in the bed of the truck, but mostly he just smoked and watched the people in traffic. A lot of them were on their cell phones, shouting, their faces stretched funny in the silent standstill.
by Craig Shaeffer
It was the tablecloth that set her off. Miss Baines was staring down at it when she decided to murder her bosses.
by Eric Prochaska
Schraeder came over again today with that damn chess set under his arm, and as I watched him cross the street I hoped the wind would usher him along to someone else's gate. But he entered mine, and sat opposite me at the cherry table under the wall mirror with his plastic pieces arranged neatly on an unfolded cardboard field for over twenty minutes before he came to his senses. Then he blinked as if waking from a hypnotist's trance, stared briefly into my eyes that wanted to calm him and smooth the whole thing over but only seem to speak severely lately, and with two hurried sweeps of his arm had the entire set boxed up and sprang from his chair and out the door. The gate's metallic slam punctuated his leaving like a sonic boom. He doesn't mean any harm. He's just lost his mind. And sometimes he forgets that I've lost everything else.
Looking for Me
by Ian Randall Wilson
I don't quite know how it happened. Most of the usual places for meeting women are no longer attractive. I've stopped drinking and loud music hurts my ears, which tends to rule out bars and dance clubs. Singles parties seem the last refuge of the pathetic, and matchmakers tend to be frightening folk--mothers and other professionals bent on bringing the wrong people together. At work, I sit in a windowless office from nine to six where it's considered bad form to shout out to a woman passing the door, "Hey you, are you the one?"
by Karyna McGlynn
The acetone sun
bicycled beneath the short warm earth
as we crawled inside a stranger's house
by Morgan O'Donnell
Is not some gaping black hole
It's not always a handful of sleeping pills
or those blasted bits of brain on the ceiling
When the Hunter's Young Daughter Stands in the Doorway
by Diane Hueter
Picture the hunter's young daughter
in the doorway between kitchen and garage,
her shadow thrown down on the concrete
like a stain--
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