Sunday Stories: “Real Estate”

"Real Estate" illustration

Real Estate
by Corey Farrenkopf

I stamped the For Sale sign into the lawn seven months ago. Since then, I arranged one tour, fielded five related phone calls, and received zero offers. I was the only realtor in a five town radius. The house was the only one on the market within that radius. No one moved there. No one moved away. When residents died, their houses were willed to younger generations or they collapse inward. The main road was lined with moldering frames, wooden skeletons climbing out of never mown lawns. Some were charred black from electrical fires, others were little more than kindling heaped into a cement foundation, sunken like collapsed graves.

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Sunday Stories: “Deficit”

"Deficit" art

Deficit
by Michele Suzann

It was not a large sum of money but I needed it.  I was attempting to be different, trying not to tell a story.  You know, the one entitled Why I Need The Money?  I had discovered that whether or not the story prompted its hearer to hand over dollars, it inevitably inspired a compulsion to transmit advice.  But I had never told the story to learn how I might, in future, avoid having the story to tell; I told the story to get money. As the situation persisted, however, and in an attempt to change it without cash, I stopped telling the story.  This on the advice of a hearer (I was beaten down; what can I say; I took it). The advice was: if you stop telling the story, it will cease to be true, ergo: you will not need the money. I had taken this advice to the payday lender, to the sale of still-treasured not to mention useful personal effects, to the second job, to the third job.  Places you could go to, storyless.  

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Sunday Stories: “Plucking”

Plucking

Plucking
by Ingrid Nelson

“Agnes, let’s pluck out your eyebrows and the hair on top of your forehead,” says Codre. I don’t say anything. She’s my maidservant, and my best friend, though it’s difficult to understand this relationship. Sometimes we’re awful to each other on purpose with an intensity neither of us acknowledges, though other times we act completely normal, like best friends, or like she’s my maidservant. We’re in my room, in the castle, with its heavy green velvet drapes and matching bed canopy. Codre and I do everything together, including using the bathroom. She helps me take care of my pet bird and my pet monkey. She’s been working for me since she was seven and now we are both fourteen. Every night we sleep in the same bed. She knows me better than anyone.

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Sunday Stories: “Frontier Psychiatrist”

"Frontier Psychiatrist"

Frontier Psychiatrist
by Chris Molnar

There is a disorder that arises from the reading of a certain medical text. This text describes a disorder, most common in the unorganized territories of mid-19th century North America, in which a patient experiences transient global amnesia, in conjunction with an obsessive, persistent compulsion to organize an expedition to the North Pole, creating polar amnesia. An account from the 1890s tells of a young gold miner walking north from Dawson. Months later pale bones and a pickax are discovered by incredulous Inuit near the Arctic coast, his remains scattered along gravel shores and pingos.

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Sunday Stories: “Men Who Gut Animals and Build Shelters”

Men Who Gut Animals and Build Shelters
by Monica Shie

For most of her life, Gina had dated academics. She liked to think of herself as someone who could see beyond the superficial, someone who could ignore a lack of social graces or even poor personal hygiene to appreciate the genius of men who, prior to meeting her, might have been overlooked due to their eccentricities. She was attracted to men who could expound upon a topic, men who others might find pompous or long-winded, and men who liked to provoke by defending unpopular positions in aggressively pointed arguments, prompting listeners to deflect, saying, “Let’s agree to disagree.” During her marriage, Gina grew accustomed to looking up from a book or news article to inquire of her husband, “Who were the Bolsheviks again?” or “What’s the difference between Shia and Sunni?” and without consulting Wikipedia, he would explain the world around her, in substantial detail, making her feel as if she, too, owned this information.

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Sunday Stories: “Guillo”

Guillo

Guillo
by María Alejandra Barrios

While locked in my boyfriend’s closet I think about what the bruja told me earlier this year. “Nena linda,” she said, in that particular cartagena accent of hers, her tongue fixed to her palate.  She was standing up straight, and her uncovered black shiny shoulders looked imposing under the sunlight that entered from the window. “Baby girl,” she said, “that smile is going to be your downfall.”

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