Sunday Stories: “Quietly Inside, Waiting and Waiting”

moon

Quietly Inside, Waiting and Waiting
by Thomas Price

Henry agreed to meet Jacob that night because he wanted to kiss him, but Jacob just wanted to smash jack-o-lanterns. Henry never understood what pleasure it brought Jacob. Henry hated the smell of the softening orange flesh, like that of rotting melon and baby vomit. But he loved seeing Jacob’s biceps flex as he lifted the pumpkins. He loved seeing the wet sheen on his crooked teeth, even if the smile looked deranged. His overgrown bangs peeking out from under his hoodie. How his pale skin became phosphorescent in the glow of the moon.

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Sunday Stories: “Small and Ugly”

Slicer

Small and Ugly
by Carlos D. Williamson

I scroll through my feed and see that Michelle is having a party. I want to be there, with her, but I’m here, slicing cold cuts for middle-aged housewives, who get short with me whenever they feel their lunch meat isn’t cut to par. Every time one of them shakes their head, which causes their jowls to jiggle, I know I did something wrong. Then Freddy lets me know, usually in the form of name calling, in front of them. Faggot is one of his favorite insults. Maybe his favorite word. I just keep my head down, slicing that ham thinner and thinner until it’s damn near crumbling. Then they snatch the bag, sometimes smile, and walk away. For some reason, getting berated at work seems less stressful today.

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Sunday Stories: “Boyfriend.”

image with text

Boyfriend.
by Omari K. Chancellor

Paternity

Your boyfriend puts on a mustache and fedora then pretends to be your father.  You don’t find it very amusing.

You know, of course, that he’s not your father.  Your father doesn’t even wear hats.  Or have facial hair.  Plus, your father’s emotionally abusive.  But, then again, so is your boyfriend. 

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Sunday Stories: “The Balloons”

Balloons

The Balloons
by Jonathan Perry

The greatest trial of Winston’s career was the pissing. The pissing was an epoch-defining event, akin to the death of Caesar, the crucifixion of Christ, the invention of the iPhone. There was a clear before and clearer after, a life without the pissing and a life with, and he could envision no relief.  

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Sunday Stories: “Displacement”

cracks

Displacement
by Brenna Kischuk

I am not afraid of the right things. Not tight spaces, spiders or being alone. Not flying, death, heights, infidelity, fidelity, snakes, public speaking, poverty, politics, the woods, the dark, close encounters of the third kind, or even water.

I look to evolution, find fear. Fight or flight in our bones. Fear as rational or irrational, explainable or obscure, changeable or forgotten. Fear as motivation, stimulus, emotion, as narrowing, paralyzing, manufactured, controlled. 

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Sunday Stories: “Isabel”

Isabel

Isabel
by Dylan A. Smith

Newly alone I found work in a small café that also sold flowers. Or, as I preferred then, a small flower shop that also sold coffee. Framed this way I felt more like a florist, like my father, which I liked. It was important to me the café was small because this meant I worked alone.

All winter I’d had nothing to do. He’d left in late autumn, after the colors of the season had yellowed and faded. Alone I’d wake late and disoriented to the hollow sound of the city and have food delivered to the apartment, eating just enough before lying down for the rest of the day to think. Weeks drifted like this, the light unchanging in the room.

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Sunday Stories: “After the Apocalypse There Will Be Memory Poems”

cabin

After the Apocalypse There Will Be Memory Poems
by Julie C. Day

Goodbye, Kansas

Some memories are like scars—

A knife-sharp Mobius strip in the brain

Peter and his Raiders of the Lost Sharks t-shirt

That mixture of citrus and musky end-of-day sweat

“It’s a dishwasher lemon-meringue pie, not a disaster” 

Peter had laughed 

As the foam flowed across the kitchen floor

And of course he was right

Disasters saved for another night

That apartment in Lawrence was almost ten years ago. These days there were no arms, with their scattering of dark hair and honey-brown skin, twirling Kiara above a soap-slicked kitchen floor. No dirty dinner dishes and bottles of Free State IPA. Instead, Kiara’s new life involved standing on a narrow platform supported by five stories of scaffolding next to an enormous self-sustaining dome. Kiara was one of the lucky ones. The height of the five-story-high entrance was meant to deter strays from getting in. 

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