Fiction, Words

An Authentic Angel

By Chris Parlon A spoken short story

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Featured Artists, Fiction, Print Edition, Words

Canyon

By William John Bert

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Advice for Writers

Fiction

Advice for Writers

By Daphne Kalotay     I’ve always loved reading and writing, but it wasn’t until my final semester of college that I realized creative writing was something one could study in a class, with other people.

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Fiction

How to Become a Musician

By Peter Maltzan Be sure to get a guitar for one of your birthdays, the earlier the better. (Hopefully it’s not too late for you already.) Think it will make you cooler. It will not...

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Fiction

Demeter

By Rosemary Hilliard:  The skeletal silhouettes of naked birch trees scratched against the window, creaking audibly in a cool, autumnal breeze.  Vast, yellow tendrils of sunlight spilled from the whispering branches, pooling like liquid gold on the windowsill and green grass below.

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Fiction

The Promise

By Kiel Gulick:  My first boss was an old slob, round in the middle, with a bald spot the size of a grapefruit on the back of his head. His name was Mike Palermo and the only job I could have seen him in was the one he had, maintenance. He sure-as-hell fit the bill – a real blue-collar kind of guy.

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Fiction

My Grandmother the Alien

By Luis Lascano:  Every grandmother is crazy in some way.  The reason for that may be related to the fact of simply having lived a long time.  The “aging element” becomes more evident when they are put in the situation of having grandchildren. Then grandmothers believe that they are mothers again. The only thing about this new scenario is that they have their own baggage of experience but a smaller responsibility.  In the case of my grandmother all of these issues were present. But also she had a huge tendency to behave in a really inconsequential way.

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Fiction

A Strange Encounter

By Michael Hazani:  I’m standing in a crowded street, a few feet away from a staircase leading down to the underground station. People blur by, walking purposefully, avoiding eye contact. The sun is already high in the sky; it must be noontime, or close to it. I lift my gaze and stare at the sun for five or six seconds, then shut my eyes, and a painful, bright circular shape is engraved in my eyelids. I feel dehydrated, I have a headache, and I want to find some shade and perhaps a bottle of water.

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Fiction

The Hero

By Sue Buzzard:  The Hero was born on a cold winter’s morn in December.  The wind was blisteringly frigid and blowing to shake the eaves from the roof.  The weather was too dangerous to go out or for a doctor to come to the house, so the Hero erupted from his mother’s womb into the strong cradling arms of his father.  He did not cry, but opened his golden eyes and gazed serenely up at his dumbstruck parents.

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Fiction

The Sunset Tree

By Eric Bolton:  It was during the summer in which I was 17 when I became the invisible boy around my house. It wasn't so much that I had a bad home life. In fact, comparably speaking, I was raised pretty well. It wasn't like something out of "Leave it to Beaver" where we'd all gather around the dinner table, eat a roast, and talk about our days. My parents were fairly hands-off. They never reminded me to do my homework, but at the same time, they never hit me for not doing it. Really, my childhood could've been a lot worse.

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Fiction

Disturbed

By S. Kean Cattaneo:  The battered gray mailbox at the end of our cul de sac used to read  "400" in red letters before some neighborhood kid (who wasn't me) stole the four and probably hung it in his bedroom next to a Red Sox poster.  The red zeros they left behind looked like two eyes.  During the summer, when waves of heat made the asphalt blurry, they almost blinked at you if you squinted real hard.

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Fiction

Groups With Guitars

By Didi Stewart:  Clive Duffy cleared away the empty glasses and mopped the bar. It was almost closing time. Soon he'd be popping down to Lime Street and meeting the lads for a pint or two. They'd have a game of darts, a few laughs. Then it'd be home to Milly for the usual kippers-on-toast, slippers-before-the-telly Sunday night.

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About Us:

FUSION is Berklee College of Music's global forum of writing, visual art, and music that engages notions of interconnectivity and interdisciplinary approaches to the arts. We publish high-quality literature, journalism, film/video, photography, and multimedia projects by our community as well as internationally recognized artists. We also invite essays on the rich relations between music and the other arts; translations; and works employing fusion as theme, concept, or inspiration. FUSION is a celebration of the arts, responding to E.M. Forster's charge, “Only connect!”