Kirsten's Fiction Notebook

  April Storm rammed her hands into her coat pockets and shivered and picked up her pace, trying to generate some heat in her body. She was so sick of the cold, sick of the sidewalks and streets, the cars wooshing by too close, going nowhere, over and over.  You look terrible , he had said. His voice soft. Reminding her of one night in Tacoma or Topeka, she couldn’t remember. She was standing on the top rope, waiting to fly into the match, and from way up high in the arena a man’s voice sang out: “I love you, April.”  I love you, April .  You look terrible.  It was that same sweet tone of voice that made her want to cry, though she never cried anymore. A horn blared from a red car flying by. It braked and turned and then circled around, slowing to a stop on the cross street in front of her, its hubcaps rolling backward. The window slid down and there was The Axman with his shiny, pockmarked face. Grinning like he’d hit the jackpot.      “Jump in,”...

Vern’s gym was a big open thing with gray carpet and cinderblock walls. A stage rose out of the middle, the kind for TV wrestling, where guys throw each other into the ropes and fake-punch each other’s faces. Beyond it a couple of men were lifting some free weights, and off to the side of them a huge man was sitting in a folding chair that contained half his ass. He turned around to look at us as we came in, and then he got up and walked toward us, his face shadowed under a baseball cap, his eyes large and shining behind thick glasses. “You interested in training?” he said. He seemed hopeful.      “Not exactly,” I said. “If you wanna work out I’m not doing that no more. I’m just training guys for wrestling.”      “Actually I’m looking for a place to learn Sumo. I saw the picture of Hakuho on your website.” “Picture of who?” “Hakuho. He’s a famous Sumo wrestler and he’s on your website.” “I forgot—haven’t even looked at my own damn website.” “That’s wh...