Sunday Stories: “The Blanket”

Blanket image

The Blanket
by Anthony Varallo

I don’t remember much about the blanket.  It was one of those handmade kinds you sometimes see in older people’s homes, slung atop the back of a sofa, or folded at the foot of a bed.  It was blue and gold, possibly fringed.  Patterns might have played a role.  Or not.  Like I said, I don’t remember much about it.  If you were looking at a photograph of the blanket right now and asking me questions about it, you would probably conclude that I hardly remembered anything at all about the blanket.  And you’d be a little bit right.  But you’d also be a little bit wrong, too.

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Sunday Stories: “Models”

"Models" image

by Ian S. Maloney

In the basement of our green house in Marine Park, an industrial green carpet was laid with beige and black patterned lines. A fisherman’s net was cast from the drop ceiling and a harpoon was anchored on the wall, next to an oar slung atop two industrial hooks. Bookshelves and cubby holes were built into the wall, constructed out of pine and cedar. It looked like a honeycomb. A couch was placed before a television entertainment center. The flower printed cover of red roses and green vines was worn away. Its pillows were depressed and its springs sagged in the middle. The threadbare fabric had black grease stains on it and cigarette burn holes. Ashes accumulated in the crevices of the couch.  The nautical coffee table was strewn with glasses, bowls, cups, and magazines.

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Sunday Stories: “A Typical Afternoon”

"A Typical Afternoon"

A Typical Afternoon
by Tyhi Conley

A family consisting of three brothers arrived in town. Their mother gave them catholic names: Deacon, the youngest; Bishop, the middle child; and God, the oldest. It’s hard to believe the brothers were religious, but apparently their mother was. I say “was” because she died shortly before they came. 

The brothers and I would hang out often since they only moved one neighborhood over. We were on the bus ride home when Bishop told me he’d like to show me something. After school, most of our parents were still at work, leaving us a couple of hours to roam the streets. I agreed to check it out and got off at his stop. As we approached their home, I could see God talking on the phone in the parking lot. I greeted him. Deacon was in the dining room eating cereal. I greeted him too. 

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Sunday Stories: “Kitchen with an Island”

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Kitchen with an Island
by Lauren Van Schaik

The Rescue: she flounders, she gasps—only you can save this damsel from maw of our sand (sourced from Santa Monica State Beach)

For the connoisseur: vine rope, full submersion, schoolgirl


Today, Lois Daggett is Carmen DeSole. And Carmen DeSole is a dream.

She realizes this the fifth time Gilligan hoists her from the quicksand, the fifth time they topple to the soundstage floor—more Marx brothers, less From Here to Eternity because this is 8:30pm on network TV. 

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Sunday Stories: “Femme”

"femme" title

by Lauren Sarazen

Before I was a wife, cooking was an adventure. I took pleasure in complexity then. Bringing home French cookery books, I’d spend hours decoding instructions in my second language. Time would pass slowly, whisking egg whites into tentative submission and anxiously surveilling slow-simmering bouillabaisse. My meringue would be over beaten and chunks of white fish were outrageously overcooked, but we’d laugh and eat it anyway. 

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Sunday Stories: “The Tutor”

"The Tutor"

The Tutor
by Tadhg Hoey

The Tutor receives a text from his supervisor before walking into Student B’s apartment building in the West Village. Student B is having a bad day. Student B answers the door, rolls his eyes, and without saying anything, disappears down the marbled hallway into the bathroom. Unpacking his bag by the living-room window, which looks out over Sixth Avenue, The Tutor notices a bottleneck of pedestrian traffic as people slow down and try to navigate around a homeless man who is lying face down on the sidewalk. In the bathroom, Student B is playing trap music on his phone.

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Sunday Stories: “Bear of a Kid”

"Bear of a Kid"

Bear of a Kid
by Joseph Edwin Haeger

“Of course we’ll think it’s cute,” he said, taking a long sip of his lite beer. The suds washed down a piece of steak.


“What?” He took another bite of steak, then took another swig a beer, letting the two sit in his mouth. 

“You said ‘it.’ It is a she. You’d better get used to that quick. She’s going to be here any day.”

He swallowed the mixture in his mouth and breathed in. A smile spread across his face.

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