Fiction

COME HERE, I WANT TO TELL YOU SOMETHING by Jamy Bond

July 24, 2020

Sometimes, I would catch her peering through a crack in my bedroom door as I changed, watching me with those blue dagger eyes. “Do you think you need some new bras?” she might say later, “those no longer seem to fit.” A way of letting me know what she’d seen. Locks were not allowed in our house, not even in the bathroom, and sometimes she would stand outside of the door while I bathed, chatting away like we were friends. She’d rattle the doorknob, just to let me know she could come in if she wanted to. Come here, I

NEANDERTHAL by Noa Covo

July 23, 2020

Two months after we get married, my husband tells me he is the last Neanderthal on Earth. We are nestled together on the couch when he says it, and I can tell he is serious. I do not laugh. I ask him how long he’s known. He says he first found out when he was a teenager. An archaeologist came to his school, as part of an attempt to encourage rural Americans to get into science. After the assembly, my husband was called to the principal’s office. I imagine my husband on his way to the office, his shoulders hunched

DEAR SOPHIE by Emma Brankin

July 22, 2020

Dear Sophie, Congratulations on the happiness. Love, Amy Delete. Dear Sophie, You look so in love. I love the dress, love the shoes, love the veil! I wish you a lifetime of love. Love, Amy Delete. Dear Sophie, How did you lose so much weight? I thought you were off coke. I have collarbone envy. Love, Amy Delete. Dear Sophie, Your pictures are deluding me into believing there is a Prince Charming out there for each of us. I want what you have. Seriously. Love, Amy Delete. Dear Sophie, I’m typing this from the comfort of

FOR OUR OWN PROTECTION by Kara Oakleaf

July 21, 2020

After the white-hot blast flashed across the sky, after the air turned toxic and we all zipped ourselves up inside government-issued suits like garbage bags, our breath misting on the clear plastic squares that let us see through our hoods, I started watching Jay. He’s always been across the street, as much a fixture as the maples lining the sidewalks before the flash, before everything burned and the trees became charred silhouettes. After school, Jay used to push the mower in neat rows across the front yard while I sat on the porch with my homework. That boy walking toward

HOME AT LAST by Greg Oldfield

July 19, 2020

The first Monday with our rescue Allosaurus Mix, I stopped home for lunch and found the ottoman in pieces. Splintered wood, strips of chewed leather, and stuffing littered the family room with a trail of buttons behind the couch. “Max has to stay in the crate,” I said to Steph on the phone while Max was playing tug of war with my suit pants. “But Max is only a baby,” she said. “Babies need rules, too.” “They also need nurturing and a room with a view. Max can’t even see out the window.” That night, after I lugged to the

TWO BOYS DOWNTOWN AT PLAY by J. Edward Kruft

July 19, 2020

They were to meet at the Ben Bridge clock, as usual. Aaron arrived first, in his Spandau Ballet t-shirt and Levi’s ripped at both knees, last year’s ski-jacket, unzipped as it was a warm day. He stood smoking his Camel as a murder of boys came by. “Fag,” one of them called and they all laughed and looked over their shoulders and pointed and laughed again, and Aaron, he blew smoke from his nose. He watched Matt approach from 4th Avenue. Matt, with his shoulder-length hair, in his Smiths t-shirt and paint-splattered cords and green Spiewak parka that was torn

LUMPS by Sean Littlefield Chumley

July 18, 2020

Unlike most people who live near restaurants, I never visit the fast-food place next to my house. Chunkee’s looks like any other corporate restaurant. The shellacked exterior, the vibrant sign a mile high announcing its presence like a lighthouse, the drive-thru menu with its voice-box speaker. I’ve never seen a Chunkee’s anywhere else, and I’ve never seen a commercial for one, and I don’t know what kind of food they serve other than fast. The sign doesn’t give much away. I watch it change every day, but the bottom always says NO BURGERS HERE!!!!!! From the window next to my

WITHOUT YOU, I’M EVERYTHING by Felicity Fenton

July 17, 2020

They went away, left her for others. They called less. They texted less. Soon they were running into each other in the parking lot of the dump, rushing to get back to things. “You look great.” They didn’t mean it. “You seem great.” They didn’t mean it. “So great to see you.” They weren’t sure. They boasted about busyness. Their kids, their houses, their husbands. She was busy felting socks for refugees. They were busy driving sports utility vehicles. She was busy searching for working pay phones so she could call her grandmother and tell her she had been places.

OFF COME THE MASKS by Mitchell Waldman

July 7, 2020

I’m driving down 104, out in the thinning herd of metal vehicles in pursuit of essentials, my mask on the seat beside me, right next to the miniature bottle of hand sanitizer and the pack of Marlboros, when I see him standing on the corner of 104 and Lake with his thin frame, long white beard, and the sign thrust up in the air “Prepare to Meet Your God!” I don’t know what comes over me, I slam on the brakes, the car behind almost smashing right into me, bleating its horn. I get out of the vehicle, and walk

SPREE by Meg Tuite

July 6, 2020

Mom has an entire fortress of pillows that she readjusts around her body. “Barricading my skin against bedsores. Stay in one place for too long and you’ll have to order another ass from Walgreens.” Amber prescription bottles layer her bedside table. She marks the empties with a black X, doesn’t throw them away until a refill has been secured. Rustling toes mow through bed sheets as Mom drags up another mini-vodka with her feet. The bottomless cascade of that clear liquid is her Niagara Falls. She is queen of the mini-island. Bottles are stashed away in pockets, beds, pillows, shoes,