by Lydia Tai When I was seventeen, I knew a boy who told me a story that I’d never believe. His name was Ebright, and his eyes were a starry deep blue, bluer than the ocean during a storm. Ebright was taken from his parents at the age of seven. This might have had something
by Martin Toman The sun beat down. Hot air blasted into the cabin through the open windows. It was a long drive back to the vineyard from town, made dangerous by the rutted road. William bounced around on the bench seat, concentrating on avoiding the channels carved out of the surface by heavy winter rains,
by Allen Sherman My girlfriend Nicole spent most of her childhood in Italy. Her mother still lived there. After Nicole and I had been lovers for three years, her mother wanted to meet me. So, to celebrate Nicole’s twenty-fifth birthday, she sent us plane tickets to Milan. I arrived jetlagged, disoriented, and overjoyed to be
by Richard Squires Hana just had to sample the shit before we got to the park, before we’d even gotten out of Newark. “We can bump it off my science book,” she said. “I’ll set it up and you roll the joint.” “What’s the rush?” I asked. “Shit’s gonna bounce all over the place.” “Fine, Sammy.
by Maxim Matusevich —Hello? —You have exactly twenty seconds to guess who is calling you! —Excuse me? I really… —Come on! GUESS! —I can’t… but you sound… familiar? —Well, thank you, that’s at least something… FAMILIAR… And you sound so FORMAL. Is it because I’m calling you at work? —No, it’s because I’m still trying
by Judy Bolton-Fasman I read the obituaries of those who have died in the pandemic, and say many of their names softly before I recite the five paragraphs of the Kaddish—the Jewish prayer of mourning. A new day, a new set of names. I make my way through the prayer’s chewy Aramaic, memorializing the lives
by Karol Nielsen It was a modestly priced one-bedroom in a charming townhouse near the Metropolitan Museum of Art and I was deeply in love, even though I could see all of its flaws. The baseboards didn’t line up with the floor. The oak parquet had dry rotted and squeaked. The ceiling rippled like the
by Nicholas Johnson I’m not cut out for life in the slow lane. Get back in the car and don’t slam the door. Don’t ask me to explain this epic catalogue of aches and pains. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I’m not cut out for life in the slow lane. I’m still