by Paul Ellams I always wanted to be like Bobby. From the first time he came round to our house with my sister in 07; the way he wore his Bench Jacket, the way the gold chain dangled off his wrist as he drank his bottle of Becks, and the clinking sound the glass made
A swarm of cars, the frenzy typical of big city traffic, surrounded Dr. Arlo Perkins the day Lily spotted him on her way to the gym. She approached an underpass that harbored a ramshackle community of tents, bags of garbage, and one person, still as death, in a sleeping bag. The trucks and SUVs on
by Emily Krauser Did everyone break on a pilly plaid couch? Did everyone break? Was everyone a hollowed-out apparition of their childhood self, or was it just her? Was she a narcissist for thinking she might be the only one? She both accepts and denies this possibility, her personality a spiderweb of contradictions. Everyone was
by Daniel Shapiro —Shulamith He used to carry my books every morning on our way to school. He was slender with dark, wavy hair that he combed back with pomade, and he was always neatly dressed. We must have cut quite a couple—him in pullover and long pants, me in my favorite emerald skirt and
by Daniel Shapiro (February 12, 1924) —Esther Will and I got out of the taxi on Forty-Second Street, in front of Aeolian Hall. It was close to three o’clock. I couldn’t help but feel excitement about the coming performance but maybe something else, too. I took in the atmosphere, the late sun, the clang of
by Susan Cornford Josh punched off his phone and swore copiously. The itinerary had been screwed up again! A list of alternatives scrolled through his head till he hit bottom. Then—wait! Wasn’t there that Green Cavern site? It was fairly far off the ordinary route, but, hey, “any port in a storm.” Relief revived his
by Ariel Balter I concentrated upon the girls of the community. I spent the greater part of my time with them. I studied most closely the households in which adolescent girls lived. I spent more time in the games of children than in the councils of their elders. Speaking their language, eating their food, sitting
by Gina Troisi “I think we should separate,” Maggie tells Sam. In the living room, her tank top reveals her muscular arms, her shoulders still golden from their getaway to Key West last month. “I’m sorry,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “It’s the only thing to do. The only answer.” She blinks, pausing in between