Brett Lalli
Stories (5/0)
Aquarius
The world is no longer a sphere hurtling through space. The world or at least LA is a docked boat rocking and bobbing in a harbor. I haven’t had anything to drink in at least two hours but I still feel drunk. Drunk on sun. Drunk on heat. Drunk on the season. I slither my leg off the lounge chair and try to plant a foot to steady the boat but the deck is too hot and I recoil. I don’t know anyone here except Riley—it’s his birthday—and Dane. Dane and I aren’t speaking. I tried to blow on those embers but they wouldn’t catch so now we aren’t speaking. He’s sitting in the corner of the pool drinking a Corona and his freckled shoulders are turning deep pink. I should tell him but I don’t because something still has to burn and I will let it be him. I also know Jena. She’s Riley’s girlfriend. She’s huddled close to her friend showing her something on her phone and trying to shield the screen from the late afternoon sun. I don’t know the friend’s name because she started talking to me like we were old friends even though I’d never met her.
By Brett Lalli 3 years ago in Fiction
They All Mean Something
It was always a somber day when Dr. Death was in. He was a genial enough man, if a bit reserved. He always remembered the nurses’ names, asked about weekend plans as he signed in. He wasn’t much for conversation. He rarely made eye contact. He was a small, thin man, with a pall of solemnity. His clothes were always a size too big. He had thick-rimmed glasses and a high, shiny forehead, topped with thick but graying hair. His sneakers squeaked as he walked down the hospital hallways, announcing in a near comical way the decidedly un-comical man. He hunched slightly forward as though carrying the difficult years of his career physically on his back.
By Brett Lalli 3 years ago in Fiction
Allegro Apassionato
“You uh, still playing cello?” Asks my cousin’s husband at every family dinner. “No, I quit,” I respond. But he’ll ask again in a few weeks, because he wasn’t really listening to the answer. He’s just trying to make cordial conversation with his dour teenage cousin. Somehow, Dad is always within earshot. Sometimes he’ll make a quip like, “Yeah, right after I bought you a four-thousand-dollar cello,” but after a few rounds of this exact interaction, he says nothing, just walks away.
By Brett Lalli 3 years ago in Confessions
Zuma
“Mom, I can stand up!” “I know you can, but you can show me some other time. Please sit.” Four-year-old Tyson wanted to do everything the way his older brother did, including pee standing up. But their flight was about to board and Marielle didn’t have time to wipe up the pee that would invariably end up on the seat and, probably, floor.
By Brett Lalli 3 years ago in Fiction
Golden State
Seattle had sent its best. Piebald Alary of the Puget Sound Runners set a blazing clip through Oregon, keeping to waterways and away from roads, and thus, bandits. He stopped only for rest and macro pellets at PSR outposts. Lean and sinewy, with a metabolic rate remarked as the lowest ever for a Runner, Piebald was built for long runs.
By Brett Lalli 3 years ago in Fiction