Sunday Stories: “Succumb Yr Thumb”

Succumb Yr Thumb
by Ben Bush

I was standing in the bathroom stall of a dive bar with one my students. I took the lid off the top tank of the toilet. Eight beers were bobbing around, staying refrigerated in the fresh, cool water. I’d snuck a twelve-pack past the doorman when we came in and we’d already drunk the others.

“How much would you pay for one of these at the bar?” I asked.

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Sunday Stories: “Doorbell Songs”

Doorbell Songs
by TJ Fuller

One Friday I linger until I am alone and start rifling through my coworkers’ cubes. We sell security systems and we save everything: sales scripts, client binders, marketing folders. We notate lead lists and pocket bar napkins. Me too. My drawers don’t lock either. My notes expose me. I’m sure I’m not the only snooper.

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Sunday Stories: “Fear of the Unknown”

Fear of the Unknown
by Allan MacDonell

In the mornings, sometimes, she finds herself before sunrise between sleep and wakefulness in an undefended state where the old questions still pretend to apply.

Where is he? She is in the outer court at the Hollywood Bowl. The headliner’s start time has been called, and he has not called. She sits one of three people in a box for four. The open sky above with its far off starlight illuminates nothing beyond the mystery of the moon and that one open seat. How long have I been lying here? She is drowsy on a rocky Sardinia beach. Grainy pebbles mold to her protrusions. Her towel has had a chance to dry since her last swim. He’d said he was going into the water, only for a moment, just for a dip and he’d be back.

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Sunday Stories: “They Vanished Strangely”


They Vanished Strangely
by Eric Magnuson

I.

People are wrong when they say Austin. That wasn’t the first. The first vanishing was Camden, New Jersey in 1949, seventeen years before Austin, long enough for Camden’s youngest disappeared to have graduated from high school, though, of course, he never did. All that was left of the toddler was his onesie, crumpled in his playpen as if he’d torn it off in a red-faced fit. There were twelve more that day, each of them evaporating into, what? Nothing? We can’t even say nothing. Because we don’t know.

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Sunday Stories: “Night Sharks”

Night Sharks
by Lucie Britsch

She warned me on our first night together that there might be sharks. Not just regular ones but night ones, swimming around the bed. If I wanted to call it off, she understood.

I said we could go back to mine but she said it didn’t matter, the sharks would still come.

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Sunday Stories: “Salad Days”

Salad Days by Frances Badalamenti On the night that Uncle Joe’s Tavern opened for the first time ever, I was asleep in my room. I had turned ten that day. My mother had our loud Italian family over for baked ziti and cake. We had just moved from a big four-bedroom house with a sprawling yard and a two-car garage into a nondescript one-bedroom garden apartment, even though there was nothing resembling a garden. There was grass and parking areas. […]

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