by Jim Proebstle

The sound of KC growling shocked Jake out of a deep trance and onto his feet. He must have fallen asleep on the couch before shutting the cabin down for the night. A glance at the clock over the antique bookstand told Jake it was 1:45 AM.

KC’s hair bristled on his neck, and his lips were starting to curl, baring his teeth. The growling deep in his throat became more intense. The door to the lake was closed, but some of the windows, covered only with screens, remained slightly open.

(read on…)

by Karima Alavi

Coming in from the intense New Mexico sunlight to the entrance of the candle-lit Morada was like stepping back centuries in time. The whitewashed walls of the adobe church displayed a few primitive pieces of art that reflected the strong Hispano/Mexican heritage that the male members of the Penitente Morada were proud to continue. The stark, narrow room was flanked on both sides by bancos: small adobe benches built out from the walls. I stood just inside the door, trying to adjust to the lack of light when an old woman - her gentle smile framed by faded pink lipstick - patted the seat next to her. (read on…)

by Paula Younger
2004 SFWP Literary Awards Program
Finalist

‘How was the rehearsal dinner? Think you’re going to like the new in-laws?’ Frank, the older pharmacist, asked from behind the counter. He was balding and his remaining hair gray, but his eyes were mischievous and made him look younger. Margaret was sure he was more depressed than she was when she decided to retire.

Margaret lowered her voice, ‘I’m afraid they’re a bit stuffy.’

‘They’re not as cool as you? What a shame.’ (read on…)

by Jason Nunes
2004 SFWP Literary Awards Program
Finalist

This is how I find out: I’m sitting in the chair feeling old, and foolish, the doctor, who has been prodding at my scalp figuring out exactly how much hair he needs to extract from my ass to cover my growing bald spot, stops in mid examination, he turns whiter (if that’s even possible), let’s out a gurgled yelp, and backs out of the room shaking with something pretty close to mortal terror. I sit, not moving, wondering if he’s ever coming back, or if whatever is sitting on my head is finally going to bite. Neither happens. I decide to find out what is so terrifying. He’s got one of those mirror-on-a-retractable-arm thingies, like they have in the bathrooms of upscale hotels. It takes a little bit of straining, but finally I position it so I can see. All that’s there is bare skin and a few lone sheaves of hair.

‘It’s like the Sa-hair-ah desert.’ Talking to myself is a bad habit.

I look closer. I see it. It’s right on the battle line, half revealed, where the hair retreat is currently in full force.

‘What the fuck? Why do I have ‘666′ on my scalp?’

(read on…)

by Stephanie Han
2004 SFWP Literary Awards Program
5th Place Winner

I tightly hold my father’s hand as we approach a red building near the escalator, a bar in Central. He explains to me, this is where the rich foreigners drink and watch football. My father cannot afford to drink here, nor would he be welcome if he stepped foot inside. Years later I will come to this very bar with colleagues from work and will hesitate before the door, remembering the time I stood outside with my father.

(read on…)