Saint of Disappearance by Frances Chiem As she often forgot them, three of Alisha’s neighbors had keys to the condo. This made things more complicated for Marie when small things started to disappear from the home while she was watching the dog during Alisha’s brief sabbatical in New Mexico.
Sunday Stories: “Thursday Night Special”
Thursday Night Special by Chandra Steele “If I was writing this story I would start at the red door,” he said from the top of the steps.
Sunday Stories: “That dumb space movie”
That dumb space movie by Lucie Britsch It is Halloween and they have made us dress up because there is a party after work and they thought that if we were already in our costumes we were be more likely to stay for the party than go home and then probably almost definitely not come back because who goes to a work Halloween party by choice?
Sunday Stories: “Goodbye, Big E Bar”
Goodbye, Big E Bar by Mai Nardone My father, El-Vitat Pohndee, that is, Thailand’s original Elvis P., is dead. He’s left me his costumes, which I’m restoring, as if to embalm him in the regalia. I’ve chalked a map for my embroidery. I’ll work the fabric by hand. Still, the clothes, like old pelts, will never regain their former luster.
Sunday Stories: “The Woman Without a Memory”
The Woman Without a Memory by Genevieve Hudson I met a woman without a memory once. She had a face like Kentucky and a laugh like gin. She would dip her golden finger in my water. She would tell me: drink. And I would drink and she would forget.
Sunday Stories: “The Plan”
The Plan by Aaron Burch The plan was to cull our money together. Cull? Pool? The plan was to pool our money together and buy a car. A boat of a car. A boat like for a pool. A lake of a pool. The plan was to drive across the country—one corner to the other, one hometown to another, here to there. That was the plan. The plan was for our plan, as hasty as it was, to not fall […]
Sunday Stories: “Red”
Red by Addison Namnoum The thing is, at a certain age you start to look around at the other girls and pick out the differences. In sixth grade, you notice Erika’s smooth, dark legs folded beneath her desk. In seventh, you see the pinky glisten of Hala and Nance’s bare inner thighs peak out from their gym shorts during group stretch.
Sunday Stories: “The Mirror on the Threshold of Obsolescence”
The Mirror on the Threshold of Obsolescence by Patrick W. Gallagher Karen’s husband threw himself down in an empty chair, two seats away from her, far enough away to betray a lack of intimacy between them but not far enough away to make a bold statement. They were the only two people sitting at a table, in the middle of a ballroom, with 12 chairs around it, but that was the seat that he had chosen—as though he had wanted […]