Sunday Stories: “Sirens”

Sirens by Brenna Ehrlich The ice was just thick enough for skipping stones, so Rose chucked a rock at the sheet of cold. It skittered across the surface, making a pleasing “plink plink plink” sound — until it reached a hole and splashed down. The moon shimmered in the circle of water like an opal in a pile of quartz.

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Sunday Stories: “Take Me to the Boneyard”

Take Me to the Boneyard by Brenna Ehrlich Adam had missed her. Or he supposed he did. Or he was just bored. But she was here now, anyway. She was sitting on a rusted folding chair in his studio and she was looking at his art. “This one represents something about lost time,” Adam said slowly, gesticulating a bit wildly at a crushed pocket watch glued to a piece of wood. It hung on the wall over a melted Bill […]

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Sunday Stories: “Your With the Angles Now”

Your With the Angles Now by Brenna Ehrlich The things that people write on a person’s Facebook page after they die – they sound way too much like the things people write in your yearbook. They do. Like, “You were an amazing friend. RIP” (“You’re an amazing friend! LYLAS!”). “I’ll miss you, buddy. See you on the other side.” (“See you next year!”) “You’re with the angles now.” Well, that one you probably wouldn’t find in any yearbook – but […]

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Sunday Stories: “Groupie Murder Cult”

Groupie Murder Cult by Brenna Ehrlich It really wasn’t that out-there that he had noticed her, swaying in the front row in a leather jacket, pin-up dress and black – raven-black, pitch-as-night-filled-with-ravens black – hair. It really wasn’t that out-there that after he took out his switchblade and drew it across his bare, tattooed chest, she was the one whose forehead he marked with a bloody cross, before throwing his red-stained fingers across his six-string and wailing into the mic […]

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