Nine Coolers by Efrén Ordóñez translated by Robin Myers I met Jesús Amor a few hours before I left the city, on his last day of work and the first of this story. “Goddammit to hell,” he spat, taking a seat at the table. I figured it was me he was talking to, although his eyes were fixed on the fluorescent posters hung up on the wall, or maybe on Kennedy, the stripper, her gorgeous body abstracted through the mirrors. […]
Sunday Stories: “Knees”
Knees by Emory Harkins I told my brother, Paul, he didn’t have to break the kid’s knee but Paul didn’t listen. He never listened. I was only ten, Paul was sixteen, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care that I told him not to do it. He told me if someone wants to steal from his brother then they best not be doing it with him alive. I told Paul the kid was sorry. I told him it was fine. […]
Sunday Stories: “Scrubland in the Desert at Noon”
Scrubland in the Desert at Noon by Donna Hemans We’re in West Virginia on a mountain road, miles away from the Interstate, when I suspect Mom has Alzheimer’s or something very close to it. I’d seen glimmers of it—her disorientation in long familiar settings, like getting turned around after leaving the Trader Joe’s on Colesville Road, where she has shopped every week without fail for as long as I can remember. For two weeks straight, she left voicemail messages at […]
Sunday Stories: “Who I’ve Been on Airplanes”
Who I’ve Been on Airplanes by Jessica Mooney I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your father, your sister. I’m sorry about your friend. That’s wonderful news! Please. Let me help you. Let me help you with that. Yes, I have heard that people can communicate with aliens. Excuse me. Do you want this People magazine? I’m a playwright. A paralegal. A Dom. Due to a rare degenerative disease, I’ve slowly been going blind and deaf since I was a kid. I’m […]
Sunday Stories: “The Father Tree”
The Father Tree by JL Bogenschneider It grew from a sapling seeded by the wind. During the in-between times it weathered and oversaw many beginnings, conclusions and durations. By the end it was dendriticoprecisely five thousand one-hundred and thirty-three years old. Planted and entrenched by rain in a porous soil. Not that it was aware of these things. +/- a few days here and there. The youngest amongst a sea of already-veterans.
Sunday Stories: “Both Joshes”
Both Joshes by Kate Axelrod It was the fall after Erica and I graduated from college and I was sleeping with two guys who were both named Josh. They were also both allergic to cats, but otherwise they were nothing alike. Josh Leviton was extremely earnest and always wanted to “talk things out” or “process” and Josh Kaye was so incapable of having a direct conversation and sharing anything about himself, it sort of seemed like he was on the […]
Sunday Stories: “Disappear by Numbers”
Disappear by Numbers by Rachel Ann Brickner Blood ran across the half-moon of the dog’s neck, the blade sunk halfway through flesh just deep enough for the knife to stand straight through the hide as if being held by an invisible hand. How the little heart must have beat in the chaos. Did the dog suffer? That’s what the detective wanted to know. And how could such suffering be measured?
Sunday Stories: “Stakeout”
Stakeout by Mary Miller I’m in my boyfriend’s van with its newly tinted windows, parked outside of a lady’s house. His job is to follow the lady wherever she goes and take pictures. Ideally, his job is to photograph this lady climbing a ladder or doing jumping jacks or I don’t know what so her insurance doesn’t have to pay. So far we’ve followed her to Walmart and then to CVS and then through the drive-thru at Raising Cane’s where […]