Sunday Stories: “The Immanent Will”


The Immanent Will
by Larry Smith

Aunt Susie could be implacable in ways that were good and useful. Two salient instances of this still loom in my consciousness, both instances during great difficult transitions for me. The first was when Bill and I split up. Now, Bill wasn’t a bad guy, I never thought he was, not even during our worst adversities. He was often sweet and his instincts about people and the world were typically humane. But he had this irrational streak. He would get  something into his head and would not relent, no matter how unreasonable or indefensible he must have realized it was. I’m thinking of when Aunt Susie came to my rescue in a dispute with Bill involving a CD. Any divorce lawyer would have agreed that I was entitled to half of it. Bill insisted the whole thing belonged to him, always had and always would. It was more stubbornness than greed on his part. He wouldn’t listen to reason and averred he’d ignore any court order requiring him to pay. Didn’t make sense, and I was distraught because I needed the money then and there, not after some protracted adjudication and subsequent garnisheeing of his paycheck or whatever remedy was applicable.

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Sunday Stories: “Excerpt From Moonlighters”


Excerpt From Moonlighters
by Emily Cementina 

At the hostess stand, waiting in your maroon dress (velvet, short, but long-sleeved; you think Henry will appreciate the duality), fake fur coat (black, to your knees, with a zipper that always gets stuck and a rayon liner that confirms any lingering doubt about the coat’s  authenticity), and your single pair of expensive heels (also black, a gift, from your best friend  Nina, and so tall you had to take a car into the city because you were afraid of navigating the  subway stairs), you feel a mixture of superiority and discomfort. 

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Sunday Stories: “A*”

VHS tape

by Patrick W. Gallagher

I grew my hair long and bunched it up in as many pigtails as I could on all sides. By the time I was done, nine stubby pigtails of varying length shot and drooped out of my itchy scalp. But I ignored the urge to scratch my scalp and stood in the basement, my arms at my sides, with a long, thick comforter draped over my shoulders like a cape. I lectured on the secret origins of time and space. 

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Sunday Stories: “Fanboy”

Concert image
by Dan Morey

Killer set. Loved the “Jingle Bells” cover. You looked like you were having a ton of fun up there. Like a completely crazed, Pixy Stix on Christmas morning kind of fun. Oh, I forgot—you’re from Australia. Pixy Stix is an American candy, basically flavored sugar in straws. When we were kids we’d pour them down our throats and go nuts. No, I don’t think the band was named after the candy. Pixies were great, though. Yeah. Classic. Still can’t get the bassline out of my head. Kim Deal actually sang some backup on Courtney Barnett’s second album. Right. And guitar on “Crippling Self Doubt.” Do you know Courtney Barnett? Yeah, no, I don’t really think everyone in Australia knows Courtney Barnett. But you do hang out with Russell Crowe, right? Of course.

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Sunday Stories: “Here’s a Story About a Girl and a Bear”

a bear!

Here’s a Story About a Girl and a Bear
by Holly Day

The little bear opened his eyes to sunrise. Just over the horizon, the most glorious outpouring of pink and gold was filling the sky with the same chaotic color scheme as when you drip drops of ink slowly, one at a  time, into a cup of clear water. Threads of hue darted out on all sides, and then there was the bright yellow disc of sun climbing out from behind the hills and into the pink sky, and then the sky was blue. It all happened so quickly that the little bear had hardly time to think, “It must be morning!” before it was. 

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Sunday Stories: “Xirsi”


by Mattia Ravasi

The restaurant where I wait tables is located on a street of squat apartment buildings in the deepest northern periphery of Milan. Opposite us is a fenced meadow that belongs to a boarding kennel. All through the Summer, when people go on holiday and leave their pets behind, a never-ending ruckus of homesick dogs is the neighborhood’s constant soundtrack, loud enough to drown out our radio, even with the door closed. This is actually a blessing. Gino, the owner, has a taste for melodic Neapolitan songwriters, saccharine and mopey. They remind him of an ancestral home he romanticizes, but has never visited.

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Sunday Stories: “Just Like Me”

Box, but weird

Just Like Me
by Adelaide Faith

We cross the road. To make up for the way my desirability has been decreasing over time, I’ve been trying to act like a smoker, though I haven’t smoked for years. I’ve started leaning against shop windows, leaving cafes to stand in a corner, out of the wind, out of the way of the pedestrian flow. I’ve been conjuring up these pictures I used to have on my wall, of Winona Ryder driving a taxi, smoking. I picture them, then I say to myself: just like me

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