Post Road Magazine #15

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Take that, Amy Tan - by Alex Kuo

Two half sisters walked into a bar in the California that is Chinatown. Since they didn’t like each other in the half English and half Cantonese of their mother tongue, they sat at separate tables but within sight, text-messaging digital English right into their cell phones. After her drink arrived, the older one keyed a message—YOU GO PICK UP LO MO!—and poked the Send pad with a lacquered fingernail, sucking on an ice cube, and waited for the reply....

Oh Saddam - by Rusty Barnes

Saddam Hussein was a street-side seller of hot nuts near Faneuil Hall. He worked undercover there during the last Gulf War until just after it, as the US slagged the Iraqis. If only they’d known while they video-bombed his underground bunkers and chased his doubles that Saddam spent his mornings selling cashews and pistachios in the Cradle of the Revolution with that magnificent smile. I knew, though, which made me feel not quite superior, but knowledgeable in a way others were not. My place in this hidden history, at least, would be certain. I would be celebrated in no books, but he would be—his porn-pink pistachio fingers fondling obscenely patriotic balloons—celebrated as butcher of Kurds, burner of oil, terrorist-harboring scourge, love of my life....

Victor - by Michael Czyzniejewski

Along with the groceries, my wife brings home a dummy, a little guy made of wood, a redhead with round cheeks, a high, arching brow, and a goatee. Debbie tells me to unload while she shows Victor around, that she’s getting pretty hungry, too, asking what time she should expect dinner....

Possum - by Mary Morris

I didn’t see it, but Marisa did. At least that’s what she tells me one morning as I’m dragging out the trash. “You can’t believe what was in your garbage last night” are her exact words. It’s the kind of thing Marisa would see. She sits on her stoop late at night—in her bathrobe, no less—smoking or talking to her boyfriend, more like yelling at him, or them, on her cell phone, though I’ve asked her, and so has James, to keep it down....

Bennett’s Cheap Catharsis - by Evan Lavender-Smith

Editor’s Note: Shortly after our receipt of this editorial, written by one Edward Lamarck Littleton, ABD, of Akron, Ohio, USA, we discovered, to our profound dismay, that its author had died. We resolved to publish his commentary despite a consensus among our staff that it was in dire need of a revision expunging those many odd and seemingly unrelated references to the author’s personal life. Alas, no such revision would be possible; the author was deceased. This is a regrettable problem with which we have, of late, become increasingly familiar, and we hope that our readers will excuse Mr. Littleton’s flights of fancy and/or factual errors—as they have so kindly excused those of other recently deceased authors we have published posthumously—for the sake of his commentary’s general insightfulness. May you rest in peace, Mr. Littleton....

 

 

 

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