Bobby by Katherine Satorius I was in a soaring lodge-style hotel like the one in Twin Peaks, under whose spell I’d been passing my nights, eating through its episodes on our couch, in the dark, snacking alone on marshmallows or lemon yogurt or whatever I was hungry for in month eight of my pregnancy while my husband, who had to get up early for work, slept on the other side of the wall. I was in the center of this hotel lobby […]
Sunday Stories: “Fingering”
Fingering by Emma Horwitz The bathrooms were occupied by girls getting fingered. Occasionally, hand jobs. More occasionally, some other jobs. Long-term relationships were first to the bathroom. By the end of the night, guessing who’d gone was a game to play, and I played it like a professional sport. Mostly, I wanted to be someone other people guessed about.
Sunday Stories: “Burn Premature”
Burn Premature by Kara Clark Weak breakfast tea brimmed in a hot-handled mug; marinara pooled and scalded in a spoon; her first bite of stewed potato seared her palate while she chewed, stripped a swatch of skin free as she swallowed . . . She tongues this patch of gum’s tender texture. It’s still spongy and un-slimed, slightly warm. Today’s impatient eating has burnt up her tongue’s tip too, which is bulleted with taste buds bulged and aching.
Sunday Stories: “A Classic Rock Funeral Dirge”
A Classic Rock Funeral Dirge by Thaïs Miller As I step out of the cab, paparazzi cameras flash. Men in black suits with earpieces usher the crowd away from the car, away from the chapel’s courtyard. Leave it to Mitch to have a funeral in a church dating back to the fifteenth century. The building is shrouded by gothic archways, stone pillars, and stained glass. Gaudy as ever, just like Mitch.
Sunday Stories: “Lascaux Park”
Lascaux Park by Ari Braverman The young professor, now that the dog sleeps in his bed, regularly wakes up with grit in his pubic hair and cockleburs attached to the side of his pillow. The dog—about forty pounds, two feet tall from her feet to the tips of her pointed ears—looks like a little red wolf. Her eyes are golden coins in the copper dish of her face. Her paws smell like corn chips. This morning her tail goes thump […]
Sunday Stories: “A Rare Kind of Magic”
A Rare Kind of Magic by Hannah Harlow My mother sent me to the Sumners’ for some baking powder but I went to the Nestors’ instead because I knew no one was home and I wouldn’t have to run into anybody that way. But then I saw Sarge doing tai chi in the yard next to his ragged brown tent. I’d just assumed he’d left already. No one said he was still around. I stood in the browning grass and […]
Sunday Stories: “City”
City by Circus i At night, the city blocks move. No one knows why or how it happens. It was simply this: one morning, people woke up and the city had changed.
Sunday Stories: “You Know This Boy”
You Know This Boy by Amy Jo Burns You know this boy, the one they call a cornfield cowboy. He’s the one who did horrible things to a girl while she lay unconscious in the alley behind the high school stadium. That’s only what the newspaper claims, and you know you can’t believe everything you read. You’ve been taught everyone wants to bring a good man down, the golden boys most of all. Folks like to ignite a hero, and […]