by Graeme Richmond Mack “What are you running away from, Pat?” Carolynn asked, smiling, the contours of her face faintly lit by the sun spilling through the coffee shop window. I leaned forward and cupped my coffee mug with both hands. Every time I try to explain, I find myself telling a different story. I
by Marco Etheridge Sonny don’t see much these days, leastwise not looking forward. Tomorrow just blank space, like staring into an empty mirror. Backward, now that’s a different story. Too many yesterdays crowding Sonny’s head like to bust his skull wide open. Ten thousand memories screaming, clawing for revenge, or scalding him with hellfire. Yeah,
by Salvatore Difalco Glinski has had my number all night. Can’t make a move without him breathing down my neck, going over the top, calling my bluffs, or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse. Stacked me twice already and he’s eyeing my third stack like I’m just keeping it warm for
by Robert Boucheron The ferry left at dawn and plowed through choppy seas. I stood by the rail on deck, chilled by spray and tense with adventure. Experienced travelers sat on benches in the warm, well-lighted cabin. Sensible people, they read newspapers, sipped from bottles, and ate from wrappers food they had the foresight to
by Sergey Bolmat She was shopping online and saw that independence was on sale. It was so cheap she couldn’t believe her eyes. Maybe it was made in China, she thought, and then she thought that she had to check the seller’s location. And the delivery price, of course. The item could be cheap, but
by Mohammadreza Fayaz The layover at Heathrow Airport felt interminable. Another lengthy flight to San Francisco awaited, and Ahmad’s back throbbed with discomfort. He strode past an array of quaint, colorful shops, their coffee aromas tantalizing his senses. The faces of the people around him bore a diversity he had never encountered before, marking a
by Maxim Matusevich Perched against a fluffy pile of IKEA pillows Nora watched the camels cross into her field of vision, framed by the glass panel of the balcony door. The room was bathed in an early evening quiet, the pale rays refracted off the ceramic floor tiles and played havoc with the otherwise stately
by Toby Tucker Hecht The admin aide who handed me the empty cardboard box said, “I’m sure you’ll find something soon, Julia. Much better than this job.” And then under her breath, “Sons of bitches!” I had only a few personal items, none with much sentimental meaning, but I tossed them in the box anyway
by Robert Pope Sometime in the year 1970, I received an invitation to interview for a teaching post in Rio Dell, a small Northern California town built on logging on the Eel River in Humboldt County. I had my best pants and shirt, a sports coat and tie laid out in the trunk and planned
by Charlie Fish “Good evening, Mr. Citrone, please sit down.” The man sat on the other side of the desk was dressed in a suit so sharp it could cut a diamond. This was Robin Murgatroyd – the Robin Murgatroyd – agitator, seer, demigod. He looked at me with such intensity, such authority, I don’t