beneath my skin
and I want to slap everyone
who says, with a smile,
“How’s it going?” Continue reading ““Not a Nice Girl” by Lisa Shirley”
They say that time is of the essence, but what, exactly, is time? Of more immediate interest, where does it go? Time, that is. Continue reading ““On Time” by Evelyn Martinez”
Ahead of me lay nothing but empty highway. It was evening as I walked along the lonely mountain road on the outskirts of Sierra City. Slate gray twilight shadows cloaked the twisting, two-lane asphalt. The day’s heat lingered on the silent pavement as I strolled past a long-closed lumberyard, the battered sign rotating in the breeze like a hanged man. Another mile and I’d reach the dirt lane leading to my rented cabin overlooking Wild Plum Creek.
Continue reading ““Believe Me” by Christine Holmstrom”
Though this is our Summer 2019 issue of Rougarou, we’ve found the work within to be reflective of the changing season. Continue reading “Letter From the Editors”
The children are gathered out in the schoolyard, wielding the weapons of their fathers. A belt, a wooden spoon, a rubber sandal, a tightly rolled Sunday newspaper (reinforced with coupon inserts), and the time-honored bare hands.
Continue reading ““Homeschool” by Stephen Wack”
We’re going to Boyne to ski? Got lost around Indian River? The snow’s thickening on the road. Robbie says, “We’re not going to make it up there tonight.” He’s tired from all the beers, plus we’ve been passing a little ganja around the car, the four of us. The smoke’s quite thick and the car reeks.
Continue reading ““Shrine” by Dick Bentley”
2018 Flash Fiction Contest Winner
by Leslie Doyle
“Hold your breath.”
She was shocked by the cold when her head went under. She hadn’t felt it when they waded in, even when they got waist deep and the water crept up to her stomach, but the moment the leader held her shoulder in one hand, grasped her waist with the other, and dunked her backwards, like some extreme ballroom dance move, filling her hair, then her eyes, then her nose and mouth, with water, while he’d whispered, calmly, gently—“hold your breath”—she’d gasped instead at the sudden cold, and, to her embarrassment, stood up again, coughing and wheezing, water streaming out of her nostrils, watery snot running into her mouth, as everyone around her cheered in the darkness, lit by tiki torches at the backyard of the house, which tilted down to the river bank they’d waded out from.
Continue reading “Breaths”