Wednesday, August 17

Fiction

Carmen’s Cards
Fiction

Carmen’s Cards

by Federica Santini She starts to turn up the cards. Diamond, spade… Death! We first see him shirtless, effortlessly lifting a dead tree. He stares into the camera while breaking down a wardrobe with his bare hands. He takes a selfie, full center, his muscles bulging under a too tight button-up, Elisa’s quirky smile just an afterthought to the left of the frame. Picture after picture, we learn to know him as a good giant, a good guy who was love-struck. He was enamored, in tears, obsessed. He was a good person, naïve, clueless, just wanted to help. He was a small-town Rambo and so very likable. Liked. We hear nothing of her. She is at the edges, small print to his front page titles. She only exists through him: his obsession, his unrequited love. On the last Sunday of August 2019, 2...
Gratitude is Like Vitamins for Your Soul
Fiction

Gratitude is Like Vitamins for Your Soul

by Mike Fiorito I first put Ernie Paniccioli’s name to his face when I saw Juan Carlos Pinto’s portrait of him hanging up at OYE Studios in Brooklyn. There are always many artworks on display at Pinto’s studio. Some are completed projects; some are works in progress. But this portrait really spoke to me. The hint of a smile, but yet the face wasn’t smiling. The eyes looked welled up with tears, but they weren’t crying. Pinto managed to express a living essence behind the eyes in this portrait. “Who’s that,” I asked. “Where have you been? Living under a rock, bro?” he said, laughing. Then he told me it was Ernie Paniccioli, or Brother Ernie, as he’s also known. Ernie was born in Brooklyn, of Cree Native and Italian American parents, and grew up in a tough section of Bedford Stu...
Fiction

Transfiguration

by Marianne Leone Downtown Crossing, Boston; unknown photographer Rita and Christina had lunch at the place that served the ninety-nine cent clam dinners across from Filene’s Basement. Mother and daughter sat facing each other like strangers forced to share a booth during the lunchtime rush and, like strangers, said little besides pass the salt, or hand me a napkin. It was the first time they had ever eaten in a restaurant alone together. They were calmed by the bustle of the lunchtime crowd, the clink of china, the indifferent voices of secretaries and shoppers that swaddled them. Rita had come on the subway, all the way into town, to see Christina’s apartment for herself, and to gauge how much her changeling daughter had changed in the month since she had packed her bags and left ...
Fiction

We are seeking stories from the diaspora

Pummarola, an online journal of arts, politics and culture, is seeking works of short fiction for our upcoming issues. Pummarola seeks to capture the spirit of what it means to be part of the Italian diaspora, but with an interest in all expression. We recognize the intersection/crossroads of the Italian diaspora with that of many cultures and groups, including but not limited to Indigenous, African American, Latinx, Feminist, LGBTQ communities, and as such, we welcome work that reflect those experiences. At this time, Pummarola can offer no payment for contributions. Please see our submission guidelines for more information.