Sunday Stories: “Schoolyard Rules”

Schoolyard Rules
by Jacob Margolies

Over fifty years ago, when I was six years old, I began spending all of my free time in the two adjacent schoolyards on the New York block where I lived. The larger one had basketball courts and a handball wall, and it took up the entire eastern half of an East Village block on 3rd Street. The smaller space was essentially a courtyard bounded by the north, south, and west wings of Public School 63.

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Sunday Stories: “Deadly Ponies”

Deadly Ponies
by Craig Foltz

I.

Sulphur lacks evidence. It produces huge domes of salt which loom between us. There are reams of the earth’s crust, cut up into triangles and arranged on vintage ceramic plates. We develop a collection of books through a complex system of appropriation, while pink hazy clouds drift by outside the window.

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Sunday Stories: “In Line”

In Line
by Christine Olivas

When Karen arrived, she responded to her client through the app—In line at Tim Ho Wan. You have nothing to worry about. Enjoy your afternoon! She then went to the end of the already-long queue, opened her portable chair, and sat down. Her legs were tired from the rush to arrive, and it was a temporary relief to be off her feet. To her right, a couple waited. Even though their hands interlocked, they were in the midst of debate, loudly whispering back and forth.

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Sunday Stories: “OK, Now”

OK, Now
by Emi Benn

A chorus of me too’s greeted her as she opened the app. Mimi scrolled, reading through the harrowing accounts of people she knew, people she knew vaguely, and people she didn’t really know at all but felt like she did. She had to pause before she included herself among them—had she ever been sexually harassed or assaulted? Of course not, she thought before remembering a voice teacher who’d asked her at fifteen what turned her on and a man on the subway who’d grabbed her butt.

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Sunday Stories: “Exodus”

Exodus
by Sean Gill

Originally published in:

Yarver, Kimberly, ed.  An Oral History of the Borough War.  Incognito Publishing, New York, 2058.  Used by permission.

 

Born in Uniontown, Pennsylvania in 1973, Victor Walker drove a bus for New York City’s Metropolitan Transit Authority from 2017 to 2032. In August 2024, at the close of the Borough War, he and dozens of other drivers were conscripted for a specialized task: the ferrying of former prisoners and other refugees from the city to secret locations in New Jersey. We met with him in March 2054 at Scorchy’s, a neighborhood bar in Mariners Harbor, Staten Island. At the age of 81, he remains in the workforce, employed as a barback at Scorchy’s. Today is his day off and he leisurely enjoys a drink: scotch and Bailey’s, warmed in the bar microwave for thirty seconds. Though his hair is a dusty white, he could easily be mistaken for a man in his 50s.

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Sunday Stories: “The Old Beast”

The Old Beast
by MH Rowe

Something died under the porch most winters. This time it was on the crooked side near the stairs, where the leak from the roof had softened the floorboards. The wood groaned like a ship at sea. It gave off a rotten smell. The scent made Lina think of the old beast, and she wondered if he still lived out there in the lonely places.

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Sunday Stories: “Winter in Arcadia”

Winter in Arcadia
by Katy Finnegan

The bare trees split the cold, grey January sky like a broken pane of glass. I was walking down Feather’s Hill when I saw the mist drifting in the valley below, slow moving and eerie. Strange, I thought, furrowing my brow beneath my knitted woollen hat as I took in the view. It wasn’t until Dara, the wolfhound, began sniffing the air that I realized it wasn’t mist I was seeing – it was smoke.

Then, I began to run.

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