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BONES by Wilson Koewing

March 3, 2020

I slide the glass racks to the side and peer into the dish pit where Bones struggles mightily to scrape the charred remnants of bread pudding from a hotel pan. “Bones, how are you holding up?” “Good, Chef Adam,” Bones says. “Let me know if you get overwhelmed.” “Ah, shit,” Bones laughs. Bones is pushing seventy. He’s worked the dish pit at the country club for seven years. When he can escape the pit, Bones sweeps by the dumpster or deep cleans the upstairs banquet kitchen—tasks that take him far from the watchful eye of Executive Chef, Craig. I discovered

RESCUE 60640 by Megan Carlson

March 1, 2020

Google Search History (retrieved 11/14/2019) How to get salt stain out of Uggs How to make friends How to make friends in your 30s 60640 coffee shop weather Chicago 60640 coffee shop NOT starbucks negative effects of caffeine alternatives to caffeine benefits of chamomile Making friends at coffee shop how to talk to strangers how to be less awkward how to be less intense with new people be less intense be less am I too much quiz liquor store 60640 husband distant my husband is distant what do I do emotional connection in relationship emotional connection in relationship importance Instacart

MY NONNA’S CURSE by Elizabeth Kattner

March 1, 2020

I have six impacted teeth. My mouth is overcrowded as the New York streets I wander. Too many people, not enough space. Life learns to grow upward. Skyscrapers. My teeth got the wrong message and push sideways. I take two tablets of ibuprofen to dull the pain. My coworker offers something stronger. Vicodin from when he tore his ACL last spring. I cut one of the oblong pills in half. It’s dangerous, but I was born in Columbus, the epicenter of the opioid crisis. I know to exercise caution. My coworker says I should get my wisdom teeth pulled. I

AFTER A MONTH, WE MEET FOR DINNER by Francine Witte

February 27, 2020

First thing I notice, new haircut, the grays dyed clean away. I’m careful with my words. Nice shirt, I finally say. I’m aware he never dressed this nice for me. I found it in my closet, he says. The waitress brings a basket of bread. You look good, he says. I can smell the scratches on his neck. They smell like blood and sex and another woman. Would you like some bread? I ask. Cutting down, he says, pointing to his stomach, flatter than I recall. The waitress returns, and we order small. Nothing that will take too long. The

THE HANDS REMEMBER by Andrea Rinard

February 26, 2020

I sit on the bench outside Publix. A little boy ran by me in light-up sneakers when I was almost, almost, almost to the door, and suddenly I could hear Caleb’s feet, encased like two meat loaves in the shoes I got him before he started K-3, drumming against the cart. He was so careful not to kick me after that one time–Don’t hurt Mommy! I’d had to let go of the cart and sit down because everything was narrowing down to a tunnel with Caleb at the other end. I tried to count my breaths, and I told Tom

MARKS by Monica Dickson

February 25, 2020

‘The phantom scribbler strikes again’ – Biro on gloss, 1976 The cubicle door is freshly scarred, blue ink on institutional green. This is where John learns to read. John has been constipated since he started school. His mother takes him to the doctor and they send him to hospital where he drinks barium, so they can see what’s wrong with his insides. They let him take the x-ray home. There it is, a white cloud shaped like a question mark. ‘Fuck exams’ – Compass on wooden desk, 1981 John could do better if only he would apply himself. John

THE CLOCKMAKER by Lucy Zhang

February 24, 2020

Far away—further than the deli store only frequented by the patrolling police officer and a few custodians, further than the farm with three cows and a horse and several chickens guarded from preying hawks by a fishing line ceiling, further than the white oak tree and its branches striking outward, and certainly much further than the borders of the city—is a cottage. Planks of wood bar the windows shut; mold creeps across the brick walls; pipes wind down from the roof to the ground, and the sound of water dripping on metal beats steadily to the murmurs of wind against

THE CLOCKMAKER by Lucy Zhang

February 24, 2020

LITTLE KNIFE by Candace Hartsuyker

February 23, 2020

Finger Deep in the bowels of the circus tent, the air is sage and sweetgrass. A bundle of snapdragon pods lie on the table, faces like skulls. The hermaphrodite gives me tea laced with rum in a teacup that has no handle. His index finger taps the cards, tell me what I already know. I am a girl who will live many lives. Body A man with a gap in his teeth, a gold hoop glinting in his ear. A thin, dirty hand. Every day a lemon. A yellow rind sharp as the sun. My lips puckering at the bitterness.

SATURDAY NIGHT (AT THE ER) by Fran-Claire Kenney

February 22, 2020

Trigger Warnings: anxiety, mental illness, self-harm, suicide At best (at first), it feels like mooching off. There are all these kids in the pediatric ward with oxygen masks gripping their faces like leeches, or their scalps shiny against the fluorescents, or their parents sitting watch in a casually tragic state of exhaustion next to big beds containing little, broken people. And there I am, looking twenty-one though I’m actually not, and I’ve got, wait for it, anxiety. Everybody says they have anxiety. People don’t just say they were in a crash and felt each rib snap under the car door.