Kids Without Horses (2022)

horses

Kids Without Horses
by Jennifer Spiegel

“Kids Without Horses” was originally a short fictional story that appeared in The Gettysburg Review in the summer of 2006. For years now, I’ve wanted to write the DEFINITIVE piece on my complicated relationship with my mother. (When I say “definitive,” I mean “definitive for me.”) That original story was actually pretty good, and I didn’t include it in my first book—The Freak Chronicles—because, I think, I had other intentions, even then. I pictured a novel by the same title. The original was a barely fictionalized account of our 2003 trip to Ireland for my friends’ fantastic destination wedding (Bob and Julie!). My dad had died in 2002, and we were venturing out. Later, I wanted to turn it into a novel, envisioning myself as some kind of David Sedaris/Elena Ferrante/Oversharing Writer-Maverick, tackling a difficult relationship. I tried a few times, and failed. Problems persisted. The Biggest Problem: She’s No Tim. My husband really lets me go wild; I’ll say whatever. Tim blows my prose off. Rolls his eyes. Shrugs. Can I do that to my mother, though? Can she handle my unruly prose—uncensored? I’m left with this . . . The new “Kids Without Horses.” 

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Dirk

keys

Dirk
by Simon Graham

Dirk’s ad for an assistant didn’t ask for a CV or cover letter, just a short email explaining one’s interest in writing. I said I liked the idea of learning a little bit about a lot of things, rather than a lot about one. Perhaps a pedestrian mentality for someone fresh out of high school, but Dirk told me my message stood out. “All the other applications were bullshit,” he said.

Dirk was in his mid-thirties. He had sandy curls and, despite now working as a finance writer, the firm hands of an Australian raised in the country. He wore dark sunglasses the day we first met, but this funereal veneer was betrayed by his mouth. His lips were quicksilver. A warm smile could morph into a vicious sneer and back again. 

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“Kinderkrankenhaus” — On Forging a Neurodiverse Future Without Words

diagram

Kinderkrankenhaus — On Forging a Neurodiverse Future Without Words
by Hunter Liguore

In an unknown time, in an unknown location by the sea, a child is left by its parents at the kinderkrankenhaus, a cavern-like, isolated place, where every now and then, it’s common for a child to let out a momentary shriek or a sustained single-note hum. The newest arrival, Gnome, doesn’t know why they’ve been brought there, especially after learning this is a place for the sick… or is it? 

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My Own Nirvana

Guitar

My Own Nirvana
by Amy Dupcak

Catholic school, sixth grade, early into ’96. Boxy desks and white-board markers. Pet chameleons in a tank and snowflake decals decorating windows. A classroom of girls and one unfortunate boy, all wearing maroon and gray plaid.

We are sitting at our desks when Christina presses play on the stereo, filling the room with a serrated guitar riff. The singer’s voice sounds frayed, the music lazed, a melody lurking somewhere underwater. Low “hello”s build to a crescendo of screamed vocals and fast-paced drums. I look down at the lyrics Christina photocopied from the liner notes. What does “libido” or “mulatto” mean? Why does the title mention a deodorant that doesn’t appear in the song?

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Mary Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Window

Mary Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
by Courtney Preiss

On a Saturday morning a few summers back, I wore a purple dress so my dead grandmother would recognize me. In the already relentless heat of a Monmouth County July, we awaited the arrival of a medium my mother invited to the house I’d grown up in, a woman who could pull messages from the stratosphere of that great otherworldly realm. “Heaven” was convenient shorthand for the place where, I was told as a child, all my dead relatives had ascended to. I used to imagine them floating around up there, covered in white powder and draped long cloth—like Jacob Marley or Stevie Nicks.

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The Enchanted Forest’s Edge

Woods

The Enchanted Forest’s Edge
by Brandon Lewis

    CHAPTER 1, In which we find ourselves stuck and unstuck.  

Once upon a time in pandemic-America, a boy and his dad invent a game called stuck. 

It’s easy to play: the grown-up plops a leg down, says, “You’re STUCK,” then gives the kid a small but fair chance of escape. If you are the kid, you’ve probably already lost and may be screaming in pretend agony. You then simply reply, “I’m STUCK.” And when wiggling out, you will be let free, pretend it was easy, and want to play until your grown up gives up. 

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Hair After Chemo

Hair

Hair After Chemo: A Guide to Post-cancer Treatment
by Logan Davis

Every nickname I ever received was, in some way, about my hair.  No playground triumphs or hallway altercations ever demanded the notoriety for a moniker. I was born just ahead of the release of Gilmore Girls, so my name wasn’t quite as popular (and consequently ambiguous) as it would be for those a few years younger. Some folks called me “Lo” but that stopped after a doctor told my parents that was a cruel thing to do to a kid who was just diagnosed with depression. So the names were always about my hair. 

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Happy Hour of the Wolf

Bar

Happy Hour of the Wolf
by Michael Narkunski

The innocent start: you’re sitting on the stool, as usual, awkwardly waiting to be seen. 

It’s the wrong time again, as usual. Too early to get anything close to the amount of attention that could satisfy you—but that’s just one way to look at it. Another side of you is thrilled with the happy hour hunt, thinks it’s more civilized to meet someone not-so-sloppy drunk (anyway, a bar is a bar). It’s also more charged and surprising, two guys connecting in the daylight when everyone else is in friend-mode, in unwind-mode, in still-a-person-in-the-world-mode.

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