Stonecoast Review | Issue No. 4 | Winter 2015


The Windows of Wolinska Street

Krysztof Król stood in front of the cinema’s forlorn marquee and admired a towering Hopalong Cassidy, who sat jubilant in a tooled saddle and waved a hat in exultation. His suit was a briskly white marvel, and the cuffs of his trousers rode over lustrous boots … (continue reading)

In the airport on the way home from my brother’s funeral, I consider for the first time how his body got there.  I gave it no thought on the way to St. Louis.  I’d been stunned by the news of Boone’s death, by the adrenaline bolt of my mother’s voice cutting through a clouded Seattle dawn… (continue reading)

The Epiphany of Julien Bellerose

Paris, 1906
Julien threw his brush down in disgust. In the four months since his admission to the Ecole de Beaux Arts, he’d painted scenes all over Paris. He painted the office workers at the Palais de Justice, jewelers in the Marais, courtesans in Montmartre, and picnics at the Pont de Neuilly.  … (continue reading)

What 89 Cents Will Get You

Marcy pushed her cart out of the aisle and stopped to count the money again. She found a spot in front of the canning jars and the household things, where people rarely passed. She needed time to think.

“I’m hungry.” …. (continue reading)

Unguarded Moments

She is following her father down the aisle. Or maybe the body in the casket isn’t her father anymore. He’s in Heaven, or perhaps he’s in Purgatory? There are rules about how you get into Purgatory and how long you stay, rules she doesn’t remember after all these years … (continue reading)


The air was cool, whistling down from the northeast.

Yalan closed his eyes and extended his arms, letting the breeze swirl about him. It slipped between the folds, rustling under his grey cloak, racing over flesh and biting pleasantly … (continue reading)


Somewhere in the south of Chile, high on the Patagonian Steppe, surrounded by windswept pastures dotted by cattle, the occasional outriding huaso spurring his corralero along a remote hilltop, a small pueblo leans into the vagaries of time with an abiding dignity … (continue reading)

We Got Him

Bomber boy, Sarah kept silently chanting. The dark-eyed, boyish Boston Marathon bombing suspect’s face kept flashing, all night, on the muted Birth Room TV. Below him, Sarah lay in wait. In labor, two months too soon. Timing, intently, her own breaths.

Bomber boy: 1, 2, 3–  … (continue reading)