Tag Archives: G.G. Silverman

Fiction: All the Boys

by G.G. Silverman

She was 13, but didn’t know how old the boy at the basketball hoop was. He was cute. Maybe 16? He played alone in the long twilight of summer. She hadn’t seen him before. He might’ve lived here his whole life but hadn’t gone to her school — maybe he went to private school? — and only now discovered the hoop next to her house, by the lone street lamp on the road. Didn’t notice her, even though she sat on the wall close by every night, watching. He seemed all-American and tall and tan and smooth and quiet and she swore his sweat smelled delicious like ripe apples. She loved his close-cropped hair and the soft light fuzz at the nape of his neck. He hardly uttered a sound as he practiced layups, and she admired his movement, his ease. She wondered more about him. She clapped when he sank the ball again. She wondered if he’d grow to like her, if she’d become his girlfriend. Then she could go to his house and listen to records. Then maybe his mom and dad might ask if she’d come get ice cream with them at the diner by the lake. Maybe he’d hold her hand in the back seat of the car where his parents couldn’t see. Maybe he’d steal some of his dad’s aftershave and slap it on his peach-soft skin. 

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Friday Fiction: The Detonators

by G.G. Silverman

The man who blows up your house will do so disarmingly. Your appointment with him was for other, more innocuous reasons, the small drip from a pipe you fear will become a flood. When the doorbell rings, you run your hands over your unkempt appearance, a slap-dash attempt at looking less bedraggled. You hurry to the door, demanding “shhh” from the various children behind you — four, to be exact — who stop throwing toys long enough to allow you to cross without a flesh wound. You tune them out, forcing your best smile as you open the door. 

The man on your stoop is attractive. Easy on the eyes. His are blue. And you have a type, a preference for cerulean peepers. Lord have mercy. 

A pointed mustache adorns his lips, and a short neat beard announces his chin with a subtle but dashing entry. A fitted black vest hugs his toned physique over a white-collared shirt, and a black fedora rests atop his head.

“Hello, ma’am,” he beams, doffing his hat to take a short bow. “What am I here for today?”

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