Bill VanPatten

“Skateboard” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #274

SkateboardBill VanPatten Tito lay in bed, his ears tuned to every sound in and outside the family’s house, unable to shake La Llorona from his six-year-old mind. She had to be a rotting corpse, he thought, dragging herself around in tattered clothes like a chained ghost in a horror movie, a putrid smell clinging to her flesh like an invisible shroud. In his mind he could hear her plaintive wail in Spanish, asking where her children were. ¿Dónde están, mis hijos?  It was his cousin’s fault he couldn’t sleep. After dinner, Antonio—who re...

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“Dilemma” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #230

Killing is easy. Disposing of the body is the hard part. As Shane contemplated the corpse in his living room, he wished he’d thought the whole thing through. But then, impulse and passion never formed the bedrock of rational thought for anyone, had they? And he was certainly no expert. This was his first time. He hadn’t even meant to do it. Well, not quite. He’d considered it on occasion, the way a person might consider a new career—something you thought about from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy with a beer in one hand and the remote control ...

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“Loss” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #221

Fog does not come on little cat feet. It snakes its way across the land, slithering down the San Joaquin Valley, a seductive killer cloaked in gray velvetiness prowling for victims. Silently it swallows everything in its path—a shopping center, a motel, a home. It creeps down highways and roads, obscuring the vision of lonely drivers, luring them deep into the mist. They know they should ease up and take their time. But many don’t. They fall to the fatal charms of the fog and wind up a statistic, a news item at eleven o’clock, a fatalit...

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“The Perks of Summer” by Bill VanPatten

Kenny sat on a bench at the edge of Mañana’s central park, under the shade of a sycamore that looked to be in the early stages of death. Several limbs were bare, their leaves long ago having dropped with nothing to replace them other than parasitic mistletoe hanging like wilted piñatas. It was only ten in the morning, yet the summer heat sizzled off the sidewalk, the first triple-digit day of the summer peaking at around three in the afternoon the weather app said. He checked his phone. Eighty-nine degrees. At least it was dry, the Central V...

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“Tomorrow's Funeral” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #203

Tomorrow’s Funeral Bill VanPatten Death is a distant relative. It seldom knocks. It just shows up, quietly stepping over the threshold into a home, an office, a hospital room. Estranged from everyone else, it sits off to the side. Watching. Waiting. Then, as silently as it appeared, it leaves—and you wonder if it was ever really there. And you realize, death has no limits. It visits people, animals, plants—and marriages. Juanita sat in a pew in the back, thinking these thoughts. She wasn’t sure about this funeral, not sure why she’d...

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“The Bridge” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #187

Jason stumbled to the bridge, each step a struggle, his body heavy with grief, his mind fuddled by alcohol. He wasn’t sure what day it was, where he’d been earlier. Oh, yeah. The bar. They’d tossed him out, eighty-sixed him just as happy hour was ending and said, “No more, Buddy.” He wasn’t that drunk, though—and certainly not belligerent. Just crying into his martini, weeping like a five-year-old—the salt of his tears mixing with the drink, indistinguishable from the juice of the plump olives impaled within the glass, dead.  He step...

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“Memories” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #142

The floorboard creaked as I stepped into the windowless room. Dimly lit, it was the size of a palatial dining hall. A small table sat in the center with one chair. No other furniture adorned the room, save the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves populated by thousands of volumes—maybe a million. The books were of different sizes and thicknesses, but all their spines looked the same: black with gold embossing. I stepped closer and furrowed my brow. Instead of titles, the spines had a series of numbers. I focused on one. 4.1.72.8:01. I’ve been to lib...

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“There Go I” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #140

She wore bitterness like it had been carved into her face by a mad sculptor. Each wrinkle, each line in her advanced crow’s feet, each gin blossom bore witness to a heart that long ago must have stopped feeling anything other than resentment. Her peppered hair was untamable in its greasy need to flop-flop with each lumbering step. An oversized t-shirt blared “Chukchansi Casino”, and faded blue jeans hugged her double-wide hips. I imagined her as a homeless person—straddling the gap somewhere between menopause and old-age dementia—pushing a s...

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“Dawn” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #139

When ten-year-old Dawn entered the Goodwill drop-off station in Madera, she dragged a garbage bag full of clothes behind her. She huffed and puffed as she made the haul. It didn’t help that the temperature was about to hit ninety degrees on this day in early June. “This weighs a ton!” she cried with exasperation. “Well, you wanted to do it by yourself,” her mother replied. She offered a smile that was really an I-told-you-so expression. Moms knew how to do that smile really well. Dawn ignored the look. “I should have put this on ...

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“Home” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #102

Home Snow fell softly on a late November evening in Michigan, quiet and without fuss, as though sneaking in to surprise everyone with slippery sidewalks in the morning and driveways in need of shoveling. The house was dark, save the lone ghostlike glow of the lamp beside my bed. I’d just given up trying to read and was ready to slip into pre-sleep thoughts about the day, the kinds of thoughts that spill over each other such that, as time passed, you wouldn’t quite know if you’d actually thought about anything. And sleep—like the snow out...

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“Walk/Don't Walk” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #52

THE SNOW HAD left the sidewalks and streets slick, while clouds formed a low gray canopy. It was a typical January morning in Chicago. I emerged from my high-rise to head for the L and hurried to the corner--bundled up in scarf, heavy coat, and gloves. I didn’t want to be late. Not again. The last time almost cost me my job. I had arrived fifteen minutes after the hour, with my boss and the new client sitting in the conference room. Fifteen minutes. That was a mortal sin in my company. As I rushed in, with a breathy apology, the client...

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“There Go I” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #51

SHE WORE BITTERNESS like it had been carved into her face by a mad sculptor. Each wrinkle, each line in her advanced crow’s feet, each gin blossom bore witness to a heart that long ago must have stopped feeling anything other than resentment. Her peppered hair was untamable and unrelenting in its greasy need to flop-flop with each lumbering step. An oversized t-shirt blared “Chukchansi Casino”, and faded blue jeans hugged her double-wide hips. For a moment, I imagined her as a homeless person—straddling the gap somewhere between menopause an...

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“Home” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #51

SNOW FELL SOFTLY on a late November evening in Michigan, quiet and without fuss, as though sneaking in to surprise everyone with slippery sidewalks in the morning and driveways in need of shoveling. The house was dark, save the lone ghostlike glow of the lamp beside my bed. I’d just given up trying to read and was ready to slip into pre-sleep thoughts about the day, the kinds of thoughts that spill over each other such that, as time passed, you wouldn’t quite know if you’d actually thought about anything. And sleep—like the snow outside—woul...

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“Leaving” by Bill VanPatten

Submitted to Contest #39

He adjusts the focus with the hint of a twist, squinting into the eyepiece. “You’re right,” he says, “that’s Jupiter, not a star.” I want to say, “I told you so.” Instead, I look at the black inkiness above, perforated with the tiniest of diamonds, and I know that some are stars, some are planets, and some are galaxies. I could name many of them for him, but I don’t. He would just think I’m showing off. And I probably would be. I zip up my hoodie, glad I layered before we left the house. I don’t know if there is a real chill in the air or if...

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