Sunday Stories: “Your Important American Historical Figure”


Your Important American Historical Figure
by Kristen Felicetti

In middle school, I enjoyed some moderate popularity with a clique of girls named Jenny, Jen, Kendall, and Naomi. Halfway through eighth grade, Jenny called my home and ceremoniously informed me, “I don’t want to be friends anymore.” 

I had been sorely friend dumped and the next day the other girls followed suit. 

Kendall repeated a variation of the same thing Jenny said, and Jen, the little coward, couldn’t even tell me in person. She passed me a note folded like a fortune cookie that when opened read, “We shouldn’t be friends. Nothing in common. Sorry.” 

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Sunday Stories: “Still”


by Yurina Yoshikawa

Clara lies down horizontally inside what looks like a science fiction sleep capsule, wearing nothing but a thin paper gown. She stares up at the white plastic ceiling, though it’s so close to her face that maybe it’s less of a ceiling, more like a lid to a coff—

“Ms. Hoshino? We’re about to start,” the technician says into his mic. “Try not to move.”

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Sunday Stories: “Homeowners’ Association”

wood grain

Homeowners’ Association
by Alicia Oltuski

We were watching House Brothers or House Hunters in Margaret Thatcher’s parents’ living room—none of us were cool enough to go on real spring break or nice enough to go on Alternative Spring Break (we called her Margaret Thatcher because her name was Margaret and someone, maybe a teacher, had said Margaret Thatcher in class once and my takeaway from ninth grade was that a nickname was like a grab)— and I was pretty bored listening to a couple about to drop their first baby complaining about dirty carpets or something. I was always bored watching house shows—I’m sure Dom was, too—but we were at an age when it felt, I don’t know, hot to do something you didn’t want to do for a girl. I was in the kitchen taking a break. Dom kept saying, “When’s your mom getting home?” and Margaret Thatcher was about to catch on that he was trying to steal another one of her fountain pens from the den. It was my opinion that if he was going to take something, it should be money, but Dom said, did I see twenty hundreds hanging out on their table? And he was right.

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Sunday Stories: “Honey Murder”


Honey Murder
by Sylvia Math

I could tell he thought I was younger than I was, and so when he got that adorable predatory look men get, when he started to strategize, I accepted it as a challenge. I was going to draw it out, take him on a wild ride called “I’m Not An Ingenue.” But I made such a good honey- tractioned trap that I got stuck in it too.

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Sunday Stories: “Cabin”


by Jon Fotch

We hiked up the hill. Bailey was ahead, looking for what she called arrow points

“Think of it like destiny,” Rebecca said.  

She huffed next to me the whole way up. Too close. Her breath a mix of old pennies and sourdough. I watched Bailey disappear up the trail. Todd right behind her. Like a puppy. Or a predator.

“She could do better,” I said.

“Oh yeah? Like you?” 

I watched my feet.

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Sunday Stories: “My Parents’ Friends”


My Parents’ Friends
by Jacob Margolies

When I remember my parents, I often end up thinking about their friends. 

My father, the son of Jewish immigrants, grew up in Boston. After serving in the army in World War II and four years of college on the GI Bill, he ended up in New York in the 1950s. He taught at different public schools and worked at a small advertising firm, while going to night school at NYU. 

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Sunday Stories: “Final Boss America”


Final Boss America
by Nicholas Grider

Like regular America, Final Boss America is over-designed and flatly lit and depends heavily on worldbuilding and lore at the expense of character and story, but everyone who lives in Final Boss America is a final boss, even the NPCs, who stare blankly and emit tough love and quest offers and toxic positivity from the oversaturated backdrops of our shared sad adventure world.

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