[FICTION][09/11/2026]Three Stories
By Sam Berman
A Seinfeld Wedding in North Carolina
You can’t, I said to myself. And again to myself. I hadn’t children then, or secrets. I didn’t dream much but knew how to tell a story after church or at small dinner with friends. I knew how to stay put. I kept rowing. Kept going. Kept trying to see if I could get my canoe stuck in the canopies that hung over the edges of the riverbank. You can’t do this, I said again, sweaty, my tie loose and then off. And I was angry (still am), so I imagined finding a cellphone on the sloppy mud held rocks where the water ended and where the water whitened and where it bubbled; and that the cellphone would somehow let me call my past self, and I could say, Stay in the hotel!—but still probably would go downstairs with the cousins and get into the Sprinter van. And now we are finally where the cedar trees clear and where my sister has found her own little patch of unclaimed earth, a frontier, her own personal splay of marital joys. Musicians flown in from France. Folding tables which have bees and dragonflies rounding the cake. Golden wine, too. I reach for my wig at the frontward part of my canoe. The V-part. Because I’m a Kramer even though I’m a girl which is fine because my sister wanted a Kramer as a bridesmaid (and we talked it out) and it’s her wedding. And her marriage will be one of jokes and shared routine and soups and stews cooked on low, just as her life with Wendy has been and will continue to be, even seven or so years from now their divorce will be genial and sort of funny (and there is love in the middle of all this they just don’t take care of it).
I Let Abe Watch a Ski Movie
The only kid I know is my sister’s kid, Abe. Of course, that’s not her name-name. No. Her birth name is Abigail, but you know the wild way names tend to morph and then shorten when they’re shouted from behind the porch screen. Yes. Sure you do. But that’s not important. No. What's important is what I did over Christmastime. And what I did over Christmastime was show Abe a movie about kids trying to start their own ski team to race against the more established, private school ski team that wouldn’t have them because they either couldn’t ski well, or at all, or they had some malady that made their technique unpleasant for the well-chinned coach in the black coat to watch, even if they—the strange kids—were producing quality course times. The movie was fine. The kids mostly had on goggles. And mostly the goggles pushed up their spiky hair. But something happened in the middle I didn’t love, which was that the only black kid in the movie was introduced as a “Snowball Dealer.” Like, he looked both ways out on the mountain to make sure the Ski Patrol wasn’t around, then opened his jacket and said, “What you need? C’mon now. You know I got it on me. Your standard slushball, always nice. The ever-popular moonball, they’ll never see it comin’. I got the bomb. The snownut. Whatchu need? Cash only—of course.” I watched Abe watch this part of the movie with her fingers twined, the way I feared, a child twines their fingers when they’re learning something new or true about the world. It was awful, just terrible. And what makes it all the worse is that right then the walls caved in. They folded. As the tidal wave tore through the house, disappearing us, the unwrapped presents, the ski-movie and fireplace all in the same instant. From there the wave continued down the rest of Yarder Street, over the volleyball courts, the old track, and the O’Reilly’s on 8th. Then it took the capital. The tollways. The airport, too. Soon it would cover all of Nashville, heading without stumble or compunction towards the North Atlantic, where it would continue further still, across Africa and Europe, before finally coming to rest somewhere between the Greater Himalayans of Northern Bhutan. And I hate—I hate—that Abe and I got washed away before I could explain to her the way things were back then in the more pleased and lighter light of 1998. And that we didn’t know how to know. And that we didn’t yet know what not to know. And I hate and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell her about the wave. I thought if I waited or stayed quiet about it, that maybe, somehow, this whole thing could go on a little longer.
Consider
Making a dart. Shooting a calmative into the middle of the sun. Reading a book in the bright new light. Loudening traffic. The morning commute. Fajita plates coming out from behind the swing doors. How every actress is named Emma London. Spaghetti Vongole. Your girlfriend’s family surrounding you on vacation. That in the wind chime garden you are the big cheese. The Alamo for car rentals. The house as a fallback. A Pharisaic run for office. For sheriff. For batboy for your local Triple-A affiliate. Kissing me back. Calling Lon Meister. Catholics. Rhinos. Foxes, eating beyond the fence. Acacia trees. Uh·kay·shuh·trees. Where there are still mines. Where there are small emails still. How Brock Turner picks up a payphone. How this all used to be mostly. How even on the seafloor there is pocket change, some bones. How you thumb wrestle until something pops. How this tough nation of brainiacs beat us to Atlantis. An accident. Smiling at Paul. Talking shit. Petting your wife. Apologizing only when necessary. How to lose all equanimity. How to gain many tokens. How a bull ends up in the water after being gang-stalked through the Hell Grass. Embedding yourself with journalists. An expatriate bombing a cruise. Sky dictation. Sand dicta. That she doesn’t talk a lot but probably loves you. The lightness of a kitty pool. Plug tobacco. International television. A play now streaming in the snowbank. How much more a projector costs when you go into the store. All stores. Closings. That most things hunt in pairs and sleep in pairs and that in those pairs they also walk. That a chunk of your watch fell off in the kitty pool. That a ten-piece of mild is right. That earth-earned confidence belongs to these guys. Uncle Ben’s rice pilaf. Instant oatmeal. Water that steams. A bench stacked with all the kids’ coats. That NASCAR only lets you race once. One time. That in a restaurant with fat silverware, somebody is saying, I want to buy you a house with this money. Most paired animals don’t share beyond the pack. Combining laws is brutal. Salting the footrails for your grandmother and her new friend. A freak barnyard. Freakish hay. Losing yourself in line at the Jack-in-the-Box. How when the bathroom is small and the door is heavy and hard you remember you can still go back. Going back. Following the Scrooge Calendar. Loading from behind the mercury glass. Soldiers that don’t lick. Fighting with your girl until it’s fine now because it’s snowing. Rooks. Kings. Queens. Magpies. Iron works. Baby girls. Hushing up for one second while I finish this. Learning how to make salads. Learning what it takes to meal prep. Filing a lawsuit by the staircase. Getting up slow. Calling Zac and telling him it’s on. Calling Don and telling him it’s probably off. Spitting game in the storm shelter. Correction: in the bunker. The kind of white chairs you might find at a wedding. The kind of white chairs you might find at the track. Chewing your arm. Chewing your dog. Not stopping. Peeling an orange all the way. Chasing the wood. Shaving your horns down if you’re Hellboy. Starting. Letting your high school band be this week’s musical guest. Chewing more of your arm. Remembering that you are not the chapter president. That you cannot legally make a copy of the key. That the rainbows are gaining weight. That it’s still morning in Vegas. In Peru. Something else. Victory. Starting your blanket business. Slalom skiing. IMAX footage. Fog. Field pumpkins. Red. White. Blonde. The Bicentennial. Mr. Williams. Teri Hatcher. Dark Horse. Lava. Gin. Red. White. Help. That you tried. Being on that gondola at the edge of the park where you tried. How now that’s all. That’s it. We’re all done considering.
SAM BERMAN is a short story writer from Boise, Idaho. He runs a literary festival with Tessy and Max and Emily that you can submit to right now.