Americana Stories is a weekly feature of poetry and prose that examines and re-envisions American culture. 

To view previous Americana Stories, visit our archives.

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Fiction

Noodle Stall for Tokuriki Yakai By Yuna Kang

If you are looking for good ramen in Osaka, I recommend going to Kirakira Place. It’s a little hard to get to, but I can help you out.

Past the underbrush, past the sea-smoke where Osaka-maids flip their elongated scales, pillow sacks, out (fluffing the dirt, watching the brown flecks blow), there are large pampas archways, huge ones, with feathery heads that loom over the small. The stars, when they are purple and brown, will click above your temple like some gorgeous halo. 

Read—and listen—Yuna’s work here.

Poetry

Three Poems by Martheaus Perkins

Jaywalking with Othello

You dumb bastard. What would your momma say?
Moors can’t jaywalk in KKK county.
Why’d you do it, champ?       Love? You’re shitting me.
Don’t pull that green-eyed monster shit with me—
I know your game. You’re never satisfied.

Read more of Martheaus’ work here.

Fiction

Artifacts by, Grant Tracey

I was held by those watchful eyes.

Tall prairie grass, scratchy streaks, heavy brush lines. Mohawk people moving, one of them peering through a sea of yellow gray.

I turned from the painting, wiped at the edges of my mouth, my .45 heavy in my hand. On a black Chippendale chair sat Cheryl Strangeways, lower lip curled under, dented with teeth marks. Her eyes were murky. Cigarette burns dotted her left arm. 

Read more of Grant’s work here.

Poetry

The Frog and Turtle Restaurant, 7:15 pm, by Kimberly Ann Priest

“Honky-tonk,” I say, “It reminds me of home.” My husband reaps another fry from his plate as the spirit of the music stirs something in me, memories: square dances, VFW halls, the ‘old days’—or so now they seem—when my father walked our small Midwestern town’s main street saluting every man who wore a baseball cap celebrating military service, and the evenings he’d sit all his children down on a couch to show us, again, pictures of Navy ships and topless men posing aboard with big toothy grins. 

Read more of Kimberly’s work here.

Fiction

The Shrink, by Linda Boroff

Her mother had come out to California from Tennessee, a new widow with six ragged kids, a cast iron skillet, and an abiding faith in “Jaysus” and hard work. They had found a cabin in the Santa Cruz redwoods, and the mother opened a dressmaking business. The children raised chickens and gardened.

I see. 

Read Linda’s work here.

Fiction

Epigenetics and the Illustrious MRS. Degree, by Shannon Frost Greenstein 

The bell choir broke into an austere rendition of Silent Night, and Heather tried to yawn inconspicuously.

The Christmas Eve candlelight service had been lovely, Grandmother was beaming that her favorite granddaughter had attended with new husband in tow, and Heather suspected she herself would be receiving something new and sparkly and expensive in the morning, as Christmas danced on the horizon a mere handful of hours away. Right now, however, she was exhausted from the drive to Philadelphia, she had woken up hungover from the firm’s holiday party, and the Lutherans did tend to go on (and on and on) during their services.

Read Shannon’s work here.

Poetry

Ambient Americana, by Isaac Rubin

You’ll find me in moth-ridden corners, dodging the depressed shuffle of trapped tourists — one footfall the echo of a million before it — skittering around like a mouse in the shtetl, huddled in snowy plains where it never rains, sheltered in Langley doorframes shattered by bombs, waiting for a Saint Bernard savior that may never come.

Read Isaac’s work here.

Poetry

Fixtures, by Taylor Franson-Thiel

Read—and listen—to Taylor’s work here.

Poetry

The Mask of Dahlias, by Jose Hernandez Diaz

A man in a “Baudelaire for President” shirt rode a crowded bus downtown to a convention center. He was going to debut his new book of prose poems: “The Mask of Dahlias.” The new book was about various philosophical concepts, which cannot be broken down into a single definitive sentence. He was nervous about sharing his new book, but also excited about the serene possibilities. The man in a “Baudelaire for President” shirt practiced reading from his book aloud on the circus of a bus. People on the bus turned around and gave him odd looks.

Read more of Jose’s work here.

Poetry

Rescue Animals, by Jonathan Wittmaier

Read—and listen—to Jonathan’s work here.

Poetry

Sing Your Hymn of the Open Road, by Renee Gilmore

     The maroon convertible was all winged fenders and pintucking, a glossy angel dropped from the Corvette heavens of Bowling Green. Glass-pack pipes murmured and growled like Leonard Cohen in his later years. That car, that sound, even that color heralded your arrival at every stoplight, summoning your acolytes to point and stare. Flags waved and marching bands played. You probably thought they are for you.

Read Renee’s work here.

Poetry

Flyover Country, by Michael Brockley

AN HOMAGE TO NEW HARMONY, INDIANA

You argue with yourself over the difference between a honey bee and a yellow jacket. The architecture of their hives and nests. It’s been years since you trespassed in the belfry of the church without a roof in the village where all the cafes were named after primary colors.

Read Michael’s work here.