A anthology of art from (young) women around the world. Check out Tunnel’s global reach!
A.A. Reinecke’s latest flash fiction piece.
“You get old and older and you turn wood eventually, in death. There is no Resurrection or Redemption—none of it.”
“She’d have a gin and tonic and stare into the carpet as though she’d found God in it.”
A collection of words and pictures shared with Tunnel in the past couple of months,
Curated by Amelia Anthony, created by individual artists.
Alexandra lulls us back into flash fiction.
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke By the age of sixteen I had a will that could’ve sprung only from the conception of a particularly well-traveled child. I wasn’t actually well traveled—most every airplane ride of my youth was between some state and Massachusetts—but my father raised me in an America balanced somewhere between a tray table and a pack of salted peanuts. It was June and hot and Trip and I were on a flight home from Minnesota, our last one together. “Got anymore snacks?” Trip said. “Pretzels?” I said. “Just not raisins.” “Whatta you have against raisins?” Trip sipped his ginger ale, “I’ve seen more raisins then Sloane Colby.” “That the girl whose father—” “Yeah, manufactures ‘em or something,” he said. He wore a particularly unattractive green sweater and close-mouthed amusement. “Races on?” Trip shoved three pretzels in his mouth, “Belmont at four and—” “You betting today?” “Yeah,” he said. “You see the McAlister’s? Racing family, you know. Spent six mill last year on breeding. There to the left. And not Arden. Kick myself …
Mass seemed more abstract that Sunday. Hymns weren’t as lyrical, caught in the roar of the fierce summer winds.
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke The word “yard sale” draws, to most, an image of dust bottomed glassware; to the soft of mind it conjures prospect of silverware to reveal, with lye and metal wool, the initials of a president’s cousin or another man of once-removed significance. To John Brady, the worth of whose brain had been estimated—by a small, but by all means reputable newspaper—at the sum of four million and seventy five thousand dollars, it meant a particularly green afternoon in Poughkeepsie, New York. Karen’s was a good house with a wide lawn, a brick exterior and a tennis court made of imported clay. She had a folding table open on the cement of the front walk up; over her face sat the effect of hastened dissipation. “Brady,” she said, when he approached the lawn, “The million dollar brain.” Brady stopped at the table. His nephew stood at Karen’s legs with his six year old palms tight to her jean-clad calves. “Hey Bumby.” Bumby clung tighter. “Say hi, Bumby.” “Where’s Dad?” said Bumby. …
Jasminne Morataya’s short story: “‘I know. It’s just that I think you need me,’ and it is in that moment that Ramiro becomes impossibly old.”