Sunday Stories: “Mister Softy”

Mister Softy
by Andreas Trolf

We were having drinks one night, Dan and me, at the old Sweetwater, which if you remember that place was maybe the last real bar on Brooklyn’s north side before the assholes moved in and fucked it all up. Before the machine shops and meatpacking places closed down and the boutiques and Thai restaurants moved in and all the old families went God knows where. Dan’s in Jersey City now, if you can believe that. 

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Sunday Stories: “Cinnamon From Pakistan”

Cinnamon From Pakistan
by Francis Sanzaro

Spices are nature’s tantra, Caitlynn would say.

On a typical Sunday morning, Caitlynn, naked and barefoot, would tip-toe around their kitchen floor. She would dab fennel pollen or crushed fenugreek on her chest, then wait for Jon to take notice and lick it off, which he did, and which she would pretend to be bothered by, but wasn’t really.

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Sunday Stories: “The Last Migration”

The Last Migration
by Keziah Weir

Alvaro Sáez grew up in the pink and gold dust motes of San Pedro de Atacama. He built houses with his father, and then hotels and roadways after his father’s death. He married a red haired American woman named Sandy who came to his town seeking some other God than the one she’d known in Western Massachusetts but found, instead, a husband. 

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Sunday Stories: “Solitaire”

Solitaire
by Brandon Sargent

“What are you going to do if I tell my daughter you’re smoking cigarettes around me?” Ethel stared into my soul, and I stared at the East River.

“What are you going to do if I tell your daughter that I found an empty Dunkin’ Donuts box under your bed?” I asked, taking a drag of my cigarette.

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Sunday Stories: “Symbols of A Self.”

Symbols of A Self.
by Sarah Millar

January, and it’s raining in Mexico. Warm rain but still, rain. I sit in the window of a split level motel room and wonder what I’m doing with my life. Sunshine adds purpose to idleness. Without it, the rain calls into question the entirety of my existence. A rhythmic tattoo on a thin roof, adding cadence to my freefall. An endless freehand roll, injecting a violent heartbeat to my flatline. The rain is knee deep and I am up to my neck. 

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Sunday Stories: “Paper Scissors”

Paper Scissors
by James J. Hatfield

((( )))

Mrs. Sasser stood behind me with her arm over my chest. The back of my head at her belly button. The woods behind our house looked like it was at the bottom of some ocean full of fire. 

In the haze of the smoke and the orange and yellow backlight, I saw a dark shape come out. It looked like one of them stories from the Bible, I don’t know which.

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Sunday Stories: “Tom Hanks Is Still A Good Idea”

Tom Hanks Is Still A Good Idea
by Nicholas Grider

Tom Hanks is a good idea. Like many good ideas (such as loyalty, consonance, simultaneity, Photoshop, and pockets) it may seem as if Tom Hanks must be naturally-occurring and evolved long ago when fresh water was easier to locate and imbibe than to purchase on sale in bulk. Idea experts have yet to reach a consensus, but in the meantime, let’s take a closer look at why Tom Hanks is such a good idea, may always have been and might forever light our way, never fading from the firmament the way that laugh tracks and summer camp and the Electoral College have, tenacious though they may be, the flower’s torn which Tom Hanks removes before handing it to us, so let’s delve deeper into the nexus of goodness and distraction and “Jimmy Stewartification.” Shall we? Let’s.

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