The Flood
by Jackson Saul
1.
Thomas Noonan catches a sweet whiff of it before he goes under, and it might make him have a thought. When it’s molasses that’s sweeping people away, they have a little more time to think last thoughts than if it were water. Noonan is a longshoreman, and he is strong from lifting things up and putting them down. But now he himself is lifted up from the shoreside cobblestone, and when he goes down, he stays down. He is strong, but not strong enough for this.
Listening Party
by Zachary Kocanda
I only remember the exact day this happened because it was after the last Adlai the Last show at Lincoln Hall two days before Christmas in 2014. I had seen the band open for Passion Pit in 2008 when I was fifteen, and my friends and I agreed the band was OK, but we were there to see Passion Pit. Back in high school, I read Pitchfork’s website every day, and my friends and I prided ourselves on knowing all the latest indie rock bands, tuned in for late-night new music on WXRT and local Chicago-area college radio stations with DJs who name-dropped friends of friends of friends. Unfortunately, we all lived in the suburbs, so we rarely made it to Chicago where all the bands played their shows.
Zeno’s Library
by Nick Douglas
I got fired from the infinite library.
My work wasn’t suiting the needs of our patrons, according to the head librarian. We were in his office again. He was giving me one more chance. The chance was to stop being the director of acquisitions and start being the director of decommissions. When I asked him how he said I could start with whatever I had last acquired and work backward.
When Fatherhood Goes Bad
by Terese Svoboda
A real bonfire. A log, two logs, three, not kindling, a blaze roaring over the water lapping the pier, a place of red eyes in the dark, and crashing flaming collapse.
Men who are willing to think themselves boys stand around as if the fire can fix them, their hands hanging confused without unbent hangers skewered with marshmallow, and the men crying. Men like him, haggard with stuff men don’t want other men to know about.
My Insatiable Hunger
by Deanna Dong
My first word as a toddler was “饿”, Chinese for “hungry” and pronounced somewhere between “er” and “ergh.” Once I learned this magical syllable, I unleashed it constantly on those around me.
“Er erghh ergghhhh,” I repeat as soon as we step through the door, despite having eaten a hearty lunch before leaving the house.
“What’s the matter, my little Dian Dian? Oh my precious heart, you are hungry? Lao Lao will find you something,” Grandma Yan exclaims as she closes the door, frantically searching for something to satiate my pressing demands.
The Endless Idiot*
Marcelle Heath
5:15 a.m.
Light finding its way in like a jackroller. My husband not in bed to gripe about the gulls. Screeching bloody murder as usual.
7:03 a.m.
A pot of coffee with milk and sugar. The sun! My to-do list. Landscapers, florist, caterers. Fetch my boy.
Monitor
by Edy Poppy
Translated by May-Brit Akerholt
I swear, the bags under my eyes are like blisters. I should lance them. They distort my face, my eyes, they keep me awake. I’ve stolen needles from the factory. A little blue box of sewing needles. I squeeze the bag under one eye. Just a cigarette first. I take deep puffs; blow rings. A last cigarette before breakfast. Just one. Then I’ll squash the packet so the cigarettes break in the middle. Throw it at the wall. I count the stubs in the jam jar. The ones with red lipstick marks don’t count. The ones with pink lipstick marks don’t count either. Still. My pores open. I notice how my skin grows coarser, my thoughts as well. I put out the cigarette on the back of my hand. As punishment. Kunyaza, kunyaza …
Artichoke
by Zoe Messinger
L’Avant Comptoir is right off from the Odeon stop on the subway in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in the 6th arrondissement. It translates to “before the counter,” the place you go to have a glass while you wait for your table at Relais du Comptoir—the prix-fixe fine dining spot nextdoor. I’ve made it beyond the counter, but L’Avant Comptoir is the real destination. It has allure, sex appeal, legs. Pictures of the dishes to come hang from the ceiling, each on their own little carte with the prices underneath: croquettes, escargot, foie gras macarons, boudin noir with truffle, waffles au jambon, Comté crème brulée. These one-off dishes tempt you in mid-air, cracking your restraint, sending you into a crazed hunger.