Sunday Stories: “Waiting For The Angels”

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Waiting For The Angels
by Luke Kokoszka

When Brother ascended Mama stopped being the Mama we knew her to be. I seen it first. We rode our bikes down the street from our house when his bum slowly lifted off the seat. The bike kept cruising without him on it before it spun out and crashed into the sidewalk. I stopped too. I’d never seen nothing of those likes. When Mama took us to church every Sunday the boring man would yell about Jesus and sometimes tell us how he resurrected. So that’s what I told Mama when I got home. I says to her I says, Mama, Brother done a resurrection. Shut your stupid noodle, she says. So I did, right. Ain’t nothing else to say. 

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Sunday Stories: “Auntland”


by K-Ming Chang

I had an aunt who went to the dentist and asked to get her tongue pulled. We only do teeth, the dentist said, but did it anyway. She took her tongue home in a jar and flushed it down the toilet and years later a fisherman in Half Moon Bay made the evening news, waving my aunt’s tongue like a flag at the end of his pole. The police are still looking for the body it belonged to. I had an aunt who worked at a Chinese buffet and stole us a live crab, which my other aunt boiled alive, and when I tried to crack the legs with my teeth the way they did, one of my molars fractured into five and my other aunt, not that other aunt but this other other aunt, spent the rest of the night tweezing tooth-shrapnel out of my gums.

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Sunday Stories: “44. ‘You’ve Got So Far to Go’ by Alkaline Trio”


44. ‘You’ve Got So Far to Go’ by Alkaline Trio
by Mariah Stovall

I finally found Fiona on a Monday. It was after the last bell. I grabbed her hand. The scabbed-over pockmarks on it didn’t faze me. Let them migrate onto mine. White-flowered trees were in bloom, diffusing the scent of fish, or was it come (not that I’d smelled it yet), all around us. I withdrew my knuckles from hers and shielded my nose. She mimicked the gesture without mocking it. I bypassed introducing myself and begged her to tell me she wasn’t like everyone else.

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Sunday Stories: “God is a Liar”


God is a Liar
by Hugh Dufour

As Miriam scratches the childhood scar on her cheek, the Reverend says, “God is a liar, a fabricator of essential fallacies.” Then I swallow the 13-Z pill. 

I can get away with anything. 

Miriam’s wearing a long white cotton dress, which hugs her limber, undernourished, erect body. Her face is like an unripe peach, with sandy hair, thick and long. I love her unflinching slit eyes, and they shine, and they’re much too green to feel real. Her thin lips, well, they’re almost sickly, and it makes me feel happy, suddenly. 

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Sunday Stories: “Allentown”

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by Ryan Sartor

I’d been sleeping with two women, both named Claire. Well, just one woman, really. Claire P. was the one I had sex with. Claire M. slept over, but we just kissed. My roommate, Randall, hated the situation. 

“You’ve been seeing both of them for close to a year,” he said. “There has to be an assumption of monogamy.”

“Why would anyone assume that?” 

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Sunday Stories: “In this fantasy Keanu Reeves saves me from myself—”

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In this fantasy Keanu Reeves saves me from myself—
by Leonora Desar

I was just over at Alyssa’s. I thought this would be a nice alternative to going to the beach with Kate, since for the most part me and Alyssa would be watching movies. This would satisfy my urge to be social while also setting an invisible timer. After about 15 minutes, after my urge to be social had died away, or been fulfilled, there would be only about a half hour left before I could say—hey Alyssa, how about that movie? It’s not that I don’t like Alyssa. I do. I like her a lot. It’s just that being social exhausts me. I have a charger but it’s: a) embarrassing plugging yourself into the wall b) most people don’t understand it. Therefore, it’s just easier to watch a movie.

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Sunday Stories: “On Means”

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On Means
by Karleigh Frisbie Brogan

The master bedroom, fulsome and delicately lit, had the illusion of being near water: a ceiling that rippled with sunset, the coolness of dim afternoon. In here we put our bed, a large ship of blonde wood, of brimming pillowtop. This was an adult bedroom, correct, decent, full of secrets kept in nightstand drawers and concealed between smoothed sheets.  Rooms like these are recreated for catalogues and showrooms, Platonic forms on which our dreams are based.

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