Sunday Stories: “Caterwaul”

Map fragment

by Mary B. Sellers

I’ve always loved how weathermen don’t even try at hiding their glee, how they quite literally make their money betting on these daily disasters–waking up each morning hoping for a handful of thirty-minute-dangers spaced evenly before and after lunch, pre and post rush hour, maybe a rare midnight rogue of a spliced, bucking cell; green screens covered in cherry pixels, hornety and crude in their county-hopping anger.

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Sunday Stories: “Stupid Girls”


Stupid Girls
by Adeola Adeniyi

“You must smoke crack if you think we’d be dumb enough to ride with y’all,” Charlotte told Harold Briggs while standing near the closed Nevins Street subway as he sat behind the wheel of his dark blue Nissan Maxima. She already watched her friend Courtney go sit in the backseat the second after he pulled over five minutes ago and offered them a ride. At least her other friend Chanel stood beside her. Courtney ignored Charlotte when she knocked on the back window and ordered her to leave right now. The young dude with long blond dreadlocks riding shotgun told Charlotte and Chanel they’ll freeze to death if she didn’t take up the offer. Charlotte had seen the shotgun rider a few times before in the kitchen at the newly built art studio on Nevins and Livingston called In Craze where they just left from, but her, Chanel, and Courtney never talked to him before. To Charlotte, he looked like he went to high school during the Reagan years with his full beard and graying chin. The three almost seventeen-year-old girls would have already been riding the 3 train if all the MTA workers hadn’t gone on strike this afternoon and now they had to shiver in the cold with snow dropping from the cloudy sky to be with the four inches already on the ground. 

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Sunday Stories: “Heorot Hall”


Heorot Hall
by Sara Cappell Thomason

In the final year of our marriage, I was prone to starting conversations with Kelly on topics he knew nothing about. Usually, it was something I had just read in The New Yorker. I’d bring up the artist Ai Weiwei for instance, his precarious status as a Chinese dissident, and when Kelly just nodded, said interesting, but had nothing to add, I would sigh, sometimes even act exasperated, as if I was basically all alone on Earth because he could not keep up with high culture. In reality, he was getting up every day at 5am to go to the gym before heading to the office, while I slept in and hung out at Starbucks.

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Sunday Stories: “El-Rokba”


by J.P. Apruzzese

for Nahla


“What will you look like when you turn thirty?” baba says. He’s sitting at the table, his face turned toward a plate of ful medames and a steaming glass of black tea. A narrow white beard dips along his angular jawline toward a rigid under-bite. Determined to exit the apartment before he spots her lipstick, Rasha says nothing. But at the door she notices him shaking his head. “You’re lying to yourself, Rasha.” 

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Sunday Stories: “Sky Lobby to Big Bubble in Under Five Minutes”


Sky Lobby to Big Bubble in Under Five Minutes
by Jason Brandt Schaefer

David O’Corley did it, so we had to beat him. Ain’t nobody thought it could be done, but he had the pics on his phone to prove it. There it was, his finger on the red button, them digital numbers on his Timex just under the five-minute mark. He even took a screenshot so you could see the time at the top of his iPhone. He’s got a matching one from Sky Lobby before he made the run, and the math worked, but some folks still didn’t believe him. They said he just camped out and let his watch run or took the pics on different days. But they’re all idiots and they know better.

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Sunday Stories: “An Early History Of The Three-Faced Race”


An Early History Of The Three-Faced Race
by Aug Stone

Local flâneurs Puffy Pullman and Cheeks Redborne lay in the grass under the cool shade of the oak trees as the afternoon reached 3PM on the 1972 Summer Solstice and the festivities of the Harrisonburg Summer Fair showed no signs of abating. They had been drinking red wine since the cock crowed the morning, for while they never participated in the town’s activities, they relished the Fair as an excuse for making merry, believing their witty commentary on all things Harrisonburg to reach its peak just as year reached its own. They were quite drunk by now, their long moustaches stained various shades of burgundy from the myriad bottles scattered about their feet. While they took pride in their appearance, for both were well-dressed in floral pattern collared shirts under dark suit jackets with matching custom leather shoes, even donning capes for this most special event, the same care could not be said of their physiques. Their already far from athletic builds were running to mush, exacerbated by the switch to the legal side of being able to purchase alcohol, both having turned 18 the previous autumn. This they did plenty of, believing themselves, in some respects correctly, to be bon vivants, and now that the weather was more copacetic they relished relishing the good life out situated in it. Cheeks was letting loose a torrent of guffaws at the proceedings on the field while Puffy had his face buried in the crook of his arm, giving him, had it not been for the presence of the Sun, a most vampire-like appearance, having had to avert his eyes due to an overdose of hilarity some moments before. The two were watching the annual three-legged race. 

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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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