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Tom Cosentino

New Fiction: The Baton

Peter looked as instructed and could not find what he was supposed to see until Charlotte’s finger stabbed at the top corner. There was a quarter page advertisement announcing that the Antiques Roadshow, Charlotte’s favorite program, was coming to New York.

“It’s this Saturday, I want to bring in my great Aunt Beatrice’s baton. She said it was very valuable. That it belonged to a famous conductor. This is my chance to find out exactly what it is. Maybe it’s worth enough that I can sell it to pay for my dream wedding.”

Peter looked at the date and time of the show, then forced a smile knowing he had no choice but to accompany Charlotte, even though he and his buddy Fred had tickets to the Rangers and Bruins matinee for the same day.

New Fiction: All That Once Was Good

Frankie Azzolino adjusted his Yankee cap as he sat on his front steps waiting for the early morning clouds to tell him whether they would let him and his friends play baseball on the field behind the elementary school. It was his first week of summer vacation having just finished 5thgrade and he and his friends had vowed to play baseball every day over the summer. The mid-June mornings in Syracuse had a hard time letting go of the nighttime chill and even if it didn’t rain, the outfield wouldn’t shake off the morning dew until they were a few innings into their first game, but only rain would keep them from playing.

His neighbor emerged onto his front steps, but he was looking up and down the street between looking down to check his watch. The clouds didn’t seem to interest him at all.

“Good morning, Mister Thomas,” Frankie said as he waved.

“Morning, Frankie,” Mr. Thomas said with his ever-present smile.

The Thomas’s had moved in the year before and were the first black family on the block. Before they moved in Frankie’s mother had told him they were a “little different”. He watched them move in for an hour trying to figure out what was different about them. After spending all that time watching, the only difference he could conclude was that Mr. Thomas drove a brand new 1966 Buick Electra. There weren’t many new cars in their working class neighborhood.

New Fiction: To Live Afresh

An undergraduate’s passion for literature… and the new Teaching Assistant…

As Declan Rosetti started his senior year at Francis Lewis University, named for New York’s forgettable delegate that signed the Declaration of Independence, as an English Literature and Creative Writing major, he was filled with thoughts of what to do after graduation. The detractors of the school called it F’ing Lame University or just FLU like the malady that struck so many during the long Upstate winters. He wondered if he had the guts to head down to New York City and live the life of a poor writer. He fantasized about getting an apartment in Greenwich Village and writing for Saturday Night Live. Or should he go to graduate school, which was the more practical decision? Those were questions for later; for now it was the start of the school year that always felt full of promise.

New Fiction: The November Guest

Homer Wheaton, widower, lived alone in a stone cottage at the end of a long gravel driveway that was lined with majestic sugar maples. The cottage, as meticulously groomed and refined as any English country house, was situated on forty-four acres outside the small college town of Cazenovia, New York.

It had been over twenty years since his wife, Faith, died in a car accident. She had been driven off the road by a tractor trailer belonging to one of the big box stores. The driver had fallen asleep after working three straight twelve hour shifts; the after Thanksgiving sales had pushed the chain to stretch the limits of sleep and sanity…

New Fiction: Return To Prague

What would make your “Must Do” list if you were diagnosed with a terminal disease?

“Christmas in Prague?” he asked, reaching out to hold her hand.

“Perfect,” she said, pulling him in close for a kiss…

New Fiction: The Regulars

A Touching Comedic Caper

“Dusty Pete” Stoyvanich took the stool at the end of the bar, Bill Middleton was in the middle, per his name and Benny C took the seat closest to where Sal stood behind the bar. The patronage of the bar had turned over a couple times since anyone knew what the “C” stood for, he had been just Benny C for so long. The guys did not pay for anything out of their pockets, the cost of their daily imbibing and dining was built into the rent for their apartments. The kind taxpayers of the great State of New York picked up the tab through the Section 8 money the three received each month…