First Tuesdays Presents M. M. De Voe

When: January 7, 2025 Where: Espresso 77 Café, 35-57 77th Street, Jackson Heights, NY 11372.
Time: 7:00 — 8:30 PM (open-mic sign up at 6:30)
Cost: $5 minimum purchase at the food counter.
More Information: Richard Jeffrey Newman

M. M. De Voe can be read in various anthologies, literary magazines, poetry collections, horror magazines, sci-fi dailies and on her free weekly Substack called “This is Ridiculous.” She is the author of a story collection, A FLASH OF DARKNESS, that Kirkus Reviews called “ominous, masterfully-crafted psychological fiction” as well as a first-prize winning productivity guide for creative writers with kids, BOOK & BABY. She is the founder and Executive Director of Pen Parentis, a literary nonprofit for writers who also are parents.

Here’s an excerpt from her short story “A House on Baltic Avenue,” which you can read in full here.

Had there been an angel in the room, none of them would have noticed. The four children were playing Monopoly. The eldest was winning, as usual.

“Advance token to nearest Railroad,” he read. His silver doggie flew to B&O Railroad without touching the squares. Pietrov was always the doggie.

“Body Odor!” yelled the other three in unison. 

If there was ghostly laughter, it sounded so much like the ruffle of the torn screen against the windowsill that Pietrov didn’t notice.

“Shut up,” he said and they all made faces at him, but they shut up. He was the oldest by four years. He was in college. He had left home. A breeze blew through his hair, mussing it. He smoothed it back. Scowled at the ceiling in accusation.

“You gonna buy it?” his sister asked. She was the only girl. She was the banker. She was the shoe. When Pietrov was away, she was the doggie. 

Pietrov’s money was kept in perfect piles. He pulled an orange five-hundred from its secret place beneath Boardwalk, and handed it to Svetlana.

“Better count it,” Vlad said to her. Pietrov hit him on the arm. 

Vlad stood up. His chair rasped on the wooden floor. He fled into the kitchen, ignoring his mother, passed out on the sofa. Her belly rose and fell, a flowered mound. Rose and fell. Rose and fell. The breeze seemed to avoid her entirely, as if something invisible was blocking its path. 

This event was funded in part by Poets & Writers, Inc. through public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, in partnership with the City Council.