Those Days Are Over
by Steve Anwyll
Drivers treat rue Saint-Jacques like a race track. Waiting at the corner S hoists a bag meant for camping on his shoulders. The weight is meant for a younger man. All his dirty clothes. Blankets too. Ash asked him when the last time he washed them and he didn’t have a good answer.
A Midnight Trip to Matamoros
by Elliott Turner
You turned on the local Fox station for a weather update as you put your espresso maker on the stove. You forgot to turn off the television or change channels before the white man in the bowtie in a clip began to explain what is wrong with America.
Three Articles of Clothing I Decided to Keep
by Meghan Lamb
Full-Length Binder
I bought this on a bad day, on a crowded train. I was pushed up against a steel pole, and shifting in pair of pointed heels. My underwire, digging into me. Chest heavy, waterlogged. I dreamed of shedding all these stiff bits, looking sleek and streamlined.
The Warehouse Disaster
by Patrick W. Gallagher
My Dear Sister,
I admit this much: I should never have left my nephew, your son, alone in our family’s warehouse. That fact is not in dispute, by me least of all. Not that he actually was alone, however. The entire warehouse staff was there, too; it was only that I, his uncle and the only official Manager in the warehouse, was not in the warehouse with him at the time.
How Everything in This World Works
by Claire W. Zhang
I’m a dealer now. From $10 disposable e-cigs to $12,000 Hermès handbags, I deal everything. I’m technically a broker-dealer – a piece of information I obtained from a kind economist on Quora – because I sometimes require a deposit for bigger transactions, but it’s not like anyone’s from Wall Street here so no one cares. I still call myself a dealer, though. It sounds cool, like a drug dealer – dangerous. Although the only “drugs” I’ve dealt so far are 20 tabs of acid (pink dancing bear) and three and a half total ounces of weed (ice cream cake, indica). This is a growing business. I don’t have that many customers.
Welcome to Greenville
by Lisa Marie Zapata
I had the choice between a booty call or a literary salon. Carnal desire being a much more urgent calling than lively debate with university intelligesia, I walked to the NJ Transit light rail station, crossed the tracks, and took the lift up to a small neighborhood in the bordering town that sat on a hill—the Heights. I walked three additional blocks, unlocked the front door and removed my shoes before entering the apartment.
Pink
by Gareth Fitzgerald
She awoke on her stomach, wearing only his boxers, and before she opened her eyes, Cassie felt there was something in his boxers.
We’ve Got A Pill For That
by Mallory Smart
I called my doctor because my brain kept lagging in the middle of conversations. Buffering like it has bad WiFi connection. She nodded and called it “existential idling” and treated it like it was a vital sign she checked hourly.