Short Nonfiction - as P.J. Sambeaux

Nikki Strong

Published in Viewfinder Literary Magazine

1984
My segue into fifth grade proved a real shit time.
First, rather than the luxurious freedom of walking to school along quiet, idyllic country lanes that I had enjoyed since kindergarten, there was the fact that I now had to ride the bus. The bus was like a prison riot on wheels that smelled of exhaust fumes and feet, with kids from fifth grade through high school crammed in three to a seat and constantly raising a hellish din. Somebody was always threatening somebody, or punching somebody, or trying to set one of the seats on fire. The bus driver was continually screaming her head off, while taking curves much too fast and threatening to dump us into the valleys below.

Gordon Reynolds

Published in The Rain, Party and Disaster Society

At one time the small town I grew up in had the highest unsolved murder rate per capita in the entire country. We were the perfect blend of an insular society, a police force that was underfunded, understaffed, and – even worse – mistrusted to a large extent, and a distinctly Appalachian mix of apathy and fatalism. Who was getting killed anyway? Who cared about poor people killing poor people? Drugs always seemed to be somehow involved, and those kinds of people were nuisances, so no one was really going to get that bunched up if their murder went unsolved. It was something for adults to shake their heads over while they muttered something about it being a damn shame but you got what you had coming.

Cheap

Published in Citron Review

My mother would only go to the laundromat in the shittiest part of town, across the bridge, because their machines took four dimes instead of four quarters. She went in the day after a woman had been abducted from the laundromat and presumed dead because of the amount of blood left at the scene.