Talley was stunned to have his story “Ruby of Hesperia” featured in The Saturday Evening Post in July of 2022.
https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2022/07/ruby-of-hesperia/
Talley’s story of three jazz legends meeting for a secret recording session won a Short Fiction Contest Award in March 2021, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Short Fiction Contest-winning story #56 — “Celestial Vagabonds” by Max Talley
Talley’s 2021 “I’ve Got My Problems,” follows a mellow SoCal dude who can’t understand why the police, landlords, and current boyfriends of his ex- girlfriends are so determined to chase him down.
I’ve Got My Problems by Max DeVoe Talley
Talley’s 2020 “Transistor Man” is a day in the life of a wandering eccentric character who has a definite mission in life. https://www.litrony.com/2020/05/transistor-man/
Talley’s 2020 “Getting Lost Coast” essay reveals secrets of the Northern California, Mendocino Coast. https://atticusreview.org/getting-lost-coast/
Talley interviewed prolific Santa Barbara author T.C. Boyle in 2019 for SBLJ Volume 4. https://www.santabarbaraliteraryjournal.com/post/t-c-boyle-interview
“In the Blue House” is slipstream flash fiction set somewhere between David Lynch & the Twilight Zone. http://abstractmagazinetv.com/2018/03/21/in-the-blue-house-by-max-talley/
“Forever Now” is about a young man trapped between vivid memories & present day reality. https://hofstrawindmill.com/2017/10/30/october-2017-forever-now-by-max-talley/
“In a Nutshell” is a humorous flash fiction piece.
https://brokebohemian.com/editions/winter2018/talley/
Talley’s 2018 “Red Tide” is a 1,400 word noir crime story:
http://bullandcross.com/article/red-tide/
Listen to Max read his 2,000 word prison story, “The Devil is in the Details”. http://twocitiesreview.com/podcast/episode-18-max-talley-the-devil-is-in-the-details/
A scene from Yesterday We Forget Tomorrow novel
Kane wondered if he could get to his 9mm handgun and fire it in time. “I never knew that you were so—”
“Cold blooded?” Trammel said. “Think back to your Phil Kane memories. I served with Kane in Iraq. Not Army, but Blackriver Security. Fucking supermen with no rules. We could kill anyone with impunity.”
“I’m not Phil Kane, I’m Richard Phillips.”
“You don’t sound very sure.” Trammel spat on the ground. “Let’s say Richard Phillips’s identity was implanted on someone else back in 2020. That was the first test of Paralyne’s abilities, but they failed. The Phillips persona couldn’t be controlled so they tried putting Kane’s memories into this mystery man—who we’ll call you.” Trammel scratched his nose. “Have you noticed any other memories, like from Desert Storm, or Operation Syria? See, you’re a whole bunch of people. Anyway, the real Phillip Kane was in a coma in Bethesda for years after the Iraq incident, burned to a crisp.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I was a test subject before you, but I volunteered. I’m number two; you’re number three. Not only was I on the mission with the real Kane, but I have his memories too. That’s how I knew you’d be here now. Anyway, the Alpha got caught, but they won’t hold him. Your replacement, the Omega is still back baking in the oven.” Trammel cracked his knuckles. “You’re the first successful host for Kane’s memories, so don’t tell me you can’t remember me from Iraq.”
Kane closed his eyes and shuddered. “That was you raping the Iraqi girl, and I, or Kane, was in the next room guarding you. I thought you were interrogating her.”
“Exactly,” Trammel said. “You were my wingman while your squad was outside doing door-to-door recon.”
“Her brothers came home and surprised us.” Kane’s head felt like it was boiling. “I tried to delay them, and then you yanked me back through the curtain onto the bed, onto the girl’s bloody body.” He took a deep breath. “You’re like a praying mantis, Trammel. You mate then you kill.”
“No, I saved your life then, just like I did four years ago in Syria, and like I did today.” Trammel’s sweaty face beamed. “I tossed a grenade out into the girl’s living room and hid under the mattress. Shit, how did I know it would set off some IED they had stashed? That device blew the front of the house down and took out your squad entering that hovel.” Trammel paused. “Damn insurgents. They were to blame. We were just doing our job.”
“That’s how they found me, alone under the dead girl,” Kane said.
“You took the brunt of the blast. I forgot to thank you. I had to disappear. Army and Blackriver men weren’t supposed to mingle. Didn’t want you getting into trouble.”
“I can’t remember any more.” Conflicting memories of both Iraq and Syria confused him.
“Kane went into shock after that and the Army had a mess on their hands, so they came up with the ‘firefight with terrorists manufacturing IEDs’ angle and Phillip Kane as the heroic survivor of his squad. You got to be a war hero—without doing a damn thing.”
“The Kane memory dump didn’t work out for me, Paralyne, or you. I’m Phillips, the MSNBCNN news anchor.”
“No proof,” Trammel said. “Phillips personality is just dominant now. With the work they did on your face and your fingerprints, who knows who you are? Is a person’s identity defined by their DNA, their mind, or their oldest memories?” Trammel let out a wheezing laugh. “You could be Phil Rickard, the Blackriver op I worked with in Syria.”
Kane thought of his bass-playing, long-haired flashbacks, and tried to imagine Syria. “I couldn’t have been in Syria. I was Richard Phillips. I fled the US when Borkman got elected…”
“Are you sure that’s not implanted? You’re either Kane or nobody, and at the end of the day, no identity is worse than a bad one in the new now.” Trammel looked him over. “So you came here to kill me, but we’re one. I’m like your brother. Cain comes to kill Abel at last. Or is it the opposite?”
“Enough allegory. Am I next on your ‘to do’ list?”
“No, our life-paths have crossed for a reason.” Trammel reverted to New Age speak. “Now we can both reach a place of healing—”
Kane pulled the 9mm from his boot and lowered his head. The lights went off. Trammel threw a monkey-wrench that struck Kane’s right shoulder with a flash of pain as he pulled the trigger. The gun’s discharge sounded puny, like a cap pistol. The bullet hit Trammel’s leg instead of his chest. Both men groaned and gripped their limbs. The pistol went clattering off into the darkness. Trammel collapsed into a pile of storage boxes and Kane crab-walked along the wall back to the stairwell.
“That was a teachable moment,” Trammel said in a feral growl. “You’re my passport out of this cluster-fuck. If I turn you in as the cross-country killer, that’s my get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Too late,” Kane said. “Art Glembock got arrested for that.”
“Okay, then I can pin someone else’s murder on you,” Trammel said. “But first, a lesson in pain management. Only I’m management, and you’ll be in pain.”
Kane made it up the stairway, clanging loudly, no longer caring who heard. He fumbled through boxes of tools and junk on the worktable. A couple of minutes, maybe, before Trammel stanched the bleeding, then gimped his way up to confront him. At the far end of the table, Kane found a metal strongbox with no lock, sealed tight by rust. He took a hammer to it, and then heaved it to the ground, cracking it. Using the claw of the hammer, he wedged the top open. Inside, a flare pistol and three shells sat in compartments. How old were they?
“Drop your cock and get ready to rock! Your life-coach is coming.” Trammel’s voice echoed in the stairwell, along with a heavy scraping sound, as he pulled a dead leg along behind him. “Your physical therapist needs to make an adjustment.”