SOMEHOW THERE WAS MORE HERE
Danny Goodman • $0.99
Collected in FPQ Winter 2011
In New York City, Ben smokes too much and sleeps with women as a way to deaden his insecurities. With every indiscretion, he fights off adulthood for one more day, until the return of an ex-lover leaves him unsure of everything. Ben’s best friend, Josh, struggles to find the good in his marriage to Maddie, even as he searches for a way to keep from losing her. Ben’s neighbor, Mrs. Aguilera, looks to make peace with those she has already lost. Gripping tightly to one another like the oddest of families, Ben and his friends embody the place in which they live: a city where everything combines, with a touch of perfect madness, into something more than the sum of its parts.
Collected in FPQ Winter 2011
In New York City, Ben smokes too much and sleeps with women as a way to deaden his insecurities. With every indiscretion, he fights off adulthood for one more day, until the return of an ex-lover leaves him unsure of everything. Ben’s best friend, Josh, struggles to find the good in his marriage to Maddie, even as he searches for a way to keep from losing her. Ben’s neighbor, Mrs. Aguilera, looks to make peace with those she has already lost. Gripping tightly to one another like the oddest of families, Ben and his friends embody the place in which they live: a city where everything combines, with a touch of perfect madness, into something more than the sum of its parts.
Praise for Somehow There Was More Here
“Danny Goodman is very special indeed. When you’re ready to scream about the shallow fields sown in contemporary, urban, hipster fiction, along comes Danny, who is himself contemporary, urban, and, thank god, an old soul, one who can actually capture and crystallize the modern experience.”
—Joseph Boyden, author of the 2008 Scotiabank Giller Prize-winning novel Through Black Spruce
“I love this story because it’s just plain good. The characters are broken and unsure, but the love they have for each other and the humor that carries them along is genuine and lovely to behold. This story made me laugh even while it was hitting me in the gut, and I’d like nothing more than to sit down and drink a beer with everyone in it. Mr. Goodman, thank you for rocking my literary waffle.”
—Lish McBride, author of Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
“Danny Goodman is very special indeed. When you’re ready to scream about the shallow fields sown in contemporary, urban, hipster fiction, along comes Danny, who is himself contemporary, urban, and, thank god, an old soul, one who can actually capture and crystallize the modern experience.”
—Joseph Boyden, author of the 2008 Scotiabank Giller Prize-winning novel Through Black Spruce
“I love this story because it’s just plain good. The characters are broken and unsure, but the love they have for each other and the humor that carries them along is genuine and lovely to behold. This story made me laugh even while it was hitting me in the gut, and I’d like nothing more than to sit down and drink a beer with everyone in it. Mr. Goodman, thank you for rocking my literary waffle.”
—Lish McBride, author of Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
Preview
I took a sip of Delirium and told Josh he was a pussy. The cold of the bottle made my bottom lip numb. As the wind picked up, tossing all manner of garbage and particles into the air, the softball diamond became a swirl of infield dirt, a perfect aestival tornado. I was sweating, and I could smell myself something fierce, though Josh didn’t seem to notice. He went on about Maddie and how he’d lost her and what a fucking idiot he’d been: it was there, and then it was gone, he kept saying. He said it, over and over, like a fucking mantra, as if the words made the sentiment real. It’s all in your head, I told him. He shook me off and repeated the words. He was wrong about some things. I nodded and finished my beer.
“Thanks, douchebag,” Josh said. He grabbed the bottle and tossed it into a trash can. “Why do I even bother?”
“Because, rock star,” I said, slipping an American Spirit between my lips, “nobody else gives two shits.” I cracked a smile and slapped him on the back.
“You’re a real fuck, Ben,” Josh said. He picked up a Louisville Slugger that belonged to our teammate, Canadian Jay, whose wife had recently used it to bash in somebody’s windshield at the A&P, and smacked the aluminum against the bench. The vibrations settled at the tips of my fingers.
Josh walked towards home plate and shielded his eyes.
“Oh, come on,” I yelled, “you know you love me.”
I blew him a kiss, and he gave me the finger. Cigarette smoke filled my lungs and paralyzed everything. For a moment I was distracted from the repetition of the game by thoughts of a recurring dream I’d been having for weeks—one I couldn’t shake. I considered telling Josh, about the woman and her voice and how I woke up, each time, gasping for air. But he was in no state for such things, not right now.
I took a sip of Delirium and told Josh he was a pussy. The cold of the bottle made my bottom lip numb. As the wind picked up, tossing all manner of garbage and particles into the air, the softball diamond became a swirl of infield dirt, a perfect aestival tornado. I was sweating, and I could smell myself something fierce, though Josh didn’t seem to notice. He went on about Maddie and how he’d lost her and what a fucking idiot he’d been: it was there, and then it was gone, he kept saying. He said it, over and over, like a fucking mantra, as if the words made the sentiment real. It’s all in your head, I told him. He shook me off and repeated the words. He was wrong about some things. I nodded and finished my beer.
“Thanks, douchebag,” Josh said. He grabbed the bottle and tossed it into a trash can. “Why do I even bother?”
“Because, rock star,” I said, slipping an American Spirit between my lips, “nobody else gives two shits.” I cracked a smile and slapped him on the back.
“You’re a real fuck, Ben,” Josh said. He picked up a Louisville Slugger that belonged to our teammate, Canadian Jay, whose wife had recently used it to bash in somebody’s windshield at the A&P, and smacked the aluminum against the bench. The vibrations settled at the tips of my fingers.
Josh walked towards home plate and shielded his eyes.
“Oh, come on,” I yelled, “you know you love me.”
I blew him a kiss, and he gave me the finger. Cigarette smoke filled my lungs and paralyzed everything. For a moment I was distracted from the repetition of the game by thoughts of a recurring dream I’d been having for weeks—one I couldn’t shake. I considered telling Josh, about the woman and her voice and how I woke up, each time, gasping for air. But he was in no state for such things, not right now.
Collected in
FPQ 2011
The Complete Collection
Featuring stories by Caroline Adderson, Meghan Rose Allen, Jack Bootle, Julie Dupuis, Cynthia Flood, Andrew Forbes, Danny Goodman, Pauline Holdstock, Lee Kvern, Kirsty Logan, Dave Margoshes, Don McLellan, Maria Meindl, Grace O'Connell, Richard Rosenbaum, and Lana Storey.
Click on cover for more info
FPQ 2011
The Complete
Collection
$12.99
The Complete Collection
Featuring stories by Caroline Adderson, Meghan Rose Allen, Jack Bootle, Julie Dupuis, Cynthia Flood, Andrew Forbes, Danny Goodman, Pauline Holdstock, Lee Kvern, Kirsty Logan, Dave Margoshes, Don McLellan, Maria Meindl, Grace O'Connell, Richard Rosenbaum, and Lana Storey.
Click on cover for more info
FPQ 2011
The Complete
Collection
$12.99
The Moment We Came Alive
Featuring Addresses by Cynthia Flood, Somehow There Was More Here by Danny Goodman, In Our House by the Sea by Kirsty Logan, and Cross Yourself by Lana Storey. Cover art by the Winter 2011 Cover Image Contest winner Alex Lewandowski.
Click on cover for more info
FPQ Winter 2011
The Moment
We Came Alive
$3.75
Featuring Addresses by Cynthia Flood, Somehow There Was More Here by Danny Goodman, In Our House by the Sea by Kirsty Logan, and Cross Yourself by Lana Storey. Cover art by the Winter 2011 Cover Image Contest winner Alex Lewandowski.
Click on cover for more info
FPQ Winter 2011
The Moment
We Came Alive
$3.75
Other Stories from FPQ Winter 2011
Addresses
New wife and mother Julie is a woman struggling to find her place. Her dilemmas, while modest, feel harsh, and reflect the ways in which women were once denied control over their own bodies. Her first steps toward independence bring great pain—and not only to herself.
With sparing, incisive prose, Cynthia Flood unravels what it meant to be a married woman in post-war era Vancouver, creating an evocative and even unsettling experience for the reader.
Click on cover for more info
Addresses
Cynthia Flood
$0.99
New wife and mother Julie is a woman struggling to find her place. Her dilemmas, while modest, feel harsh, and reflect the ways in which women were once denied control over their own bodies. Her first steps toward independence bring great pain—and not only to herself.
With sparing, incisive prose, Cynthia Flood unravels what it meant to be a married woman in post-war era Vancouver, creating an evocative and even unsettling experience for the reader.
Click on cover for more info
Addresses
Cynthia Flood
$0.99
In Our House by the Sea
Romance is candlelight on cheekbones, blurring gazes and the press of heels on strange sheets. But what happens a year later? You’re sharing bath towels and bickering over who forgot to buy a light bulb. There is beauty in a familiar hand on the nape of your neck. There is love in waking up under a shared blanket. In Our House by the Sea is about the romance of domesticity.
Click on cover for more info
In Our House
by the Sea
Kirsty Logan
$0.99
Romance is candlelight on cheekbones, blurring gazes and the press of heels on strange sheets. But what happens a year later? You’re sharing bath towels and bickering over who forgot to buy a light bulb. There is beauty in a familiar hand on the nape of your neck. There is love in waking up under a shared blanket. In Our House by the Sea is about the romance of domesticity.
Click on cover for more info
In Our House
by the Sea
Kirsty Logan
$0.99
Cross Yourself
Sometime after the incomprehensible death of his son, Joan Miró has settled into his new job working the overnight shift at a Hasty Market in Toronto. He has plenty of time to think beneath the fluorescent lights of the convenience store: of ghosts and late nights, of downtown living and dying, of customer service and self-preservation, of the beauty of the night sky, and of the attempts people make to connect with one another despite seemingly insurmountable distances. These fragments of life prove as difficult to make sense of as any code — until one night, when an extraordinary series of events suddenly teases a pattern from the dark.
Click on cover for more info
Cross Yourself
Lana Storey
$0.99
Sometime after the incomprehensible death of his son, Joan Miró has settled into his new job working the overnight shift at a Hasty Market in Toronto. He has plenty of time to think beneath the fluorescent lights of the convenience store: of ghosts and late nights, of downtown living and dying, of customer service and self-preservation, of the beauty of the night sky, and of the attempts people make to connect with one another despite seemingly insurmountable distances. These fragments of life prove as difficult to make sense of as any code — until one night, when an extraordinary series of events suddenly teases a pattern from the dark.
Click on cover for more info
Cross Yourself
Lana Storey
$0.99
