Sunday Stories: “On the House”

Coffee mug
On the House
by Emily Kiernan

Mark was behind the counter at Java Time that day, which pleased no one because while he was a nice guy (the first thing anyone said about him: just the nicest guy), he was also a remedial person with the dopey goodness of a golden retriever—symbolically golden, a retriever who has never suffered—an affect that permeated every facet of his work, from the quality of his soy-milk foams (flaccid), to the strength of his drip coffee (burnt), so we all endured an internal clench when we saw him, though no one, previously, had clenched with such unmediated extravagence as Jesse on the fabled day when he discovered Brittney Kern post (and also pre) coitally in bed with Danny Miller following one of Brittney’s infamous pool parties, to which Jesse had not been invited on account of his still-delicate, sub-ninety-day sobriety and the inevitability of drunken debauches at a Brittany party, which caused more than a few of us to question the wisdom of this particular relationship at this particular time…

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Sunday Stories: “Edith”

Frame

Edith
by Cora Tate

Rick brought the girls, when they came up the mountain to get away from the tsunami the scientists had predicted. They were adult women, but Edith, in her late sixties, thought of them  as girls. Nice girls, young ladies, but still very young, neither of them much over twenty-five.  Far from home, if their homes even still existed, they both needed some mothering and Edith felt happy to give it. She never got to see her grandchildren as often as she wanted, and now she  worried about them and their mother, Edith’s daughter. 

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Sunday Stories: “Our Inner Kaiju”

Monster

Our Inner Kaiju
by Andrew Farkas

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but when the monsters came…

What’s that now? When the first behemoth stood before us, were we filled with awe? Were we terrified? Having often thought of ourselves as greater than, did we finally think of ourselves as less than? Even much less than? Did we gaze upon the titan and equate humanity, in the grand scheme of things, with ants? Or not quite ants, maybe grubs? Did we tacitly decide definitely not amoebae because amoebae can seriously mess your shit up, and us, well, confronted by the embodiment of our existential dread, did we lose the capacity to think we could mess your shit up anymore? Could it be, listening to the roar of the colossal creature, that we mentally ceded our place at the top of the food chain, bowing before the sublimity of this leviathan?

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Sunday Stories: “Whittakers: Lake Placid”

lake

Whittakers: Lake Placid
by Nash Jenkins

Two weeks after his daughter began first grade at Peck, Skip Whittaker left his family at home in northern Jersey and found an apartment off the southern stretch of Lake Placid’s Main Street. Eighteen years had passed since the world descended upon the town of two thousand for the 1980 Olympics, to which local authorities had built a 90,000-square-foot museum in the town’s center. When Skip Whittaker arrived that October, banners bearing the Games’ interlocked rings still hung in situ from lampposts in the center of town.

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Sunday Stories: “Die Hard, Starring Frank Sinatra”

Titles

Die Hard, Starring Frank Sinatra
by John Waddy Bullion

Did you know that, in 1968, Frank Sinatra starred in a moderately successful but ultimately forgettable crime thriller called The Detective? Did you also know that when 20th Century Fox first secured the rights to the source material (Roderick Thorp’s bestselling novel), the studio’s legal department inserted a clause giving it ownership of any subsequent novels produced by Thorp featuring Sinatra’s character, Detective Joe Leland? Would it surprise you in the least to learn that Roderick Thorp wrote another Joe Leland potboiler more than a decade later called Nothing Lasts Forever, which follows Leland—now retired from detective work—as he fights off an army of terrorists that has taken an entire Los Angeles skyscraper hostage? Did you know that Thorp’s book was another bestseller, and that Fox, without lifting a finger, now found itself sitting on a guaranteed summer blockbuster? (Do you see where this is heading?). 

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Sunday Stories: “Baby’s House of Missed Connections”

Gauze

Baby’s House of Missed Connections
by Morgan Victoria

J is convinced I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but when I start bleeding out on the Williamsburg sidewalk, she shapes up a bit.

Oh god, she stops midstep, do you need to do something about that?

I elevate my foot and cradle the soft arc of my sandal in my hand. Years of yoga seem to be on my side at this moment. It’s fine, I reassure, despite being the one whose sandal has become slippery and leaving brushstrokes of red behind me. I just need to apply pressure.

J sighs, you can’t go into Baby’s like that.

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Sunday Stories: “Falling Right”

Refrigerator interior

Falling Right
by Timothy Wojcik

The problem was the raccoon in the fridge.

Natalie had been looking for a gust of fresh air and accidentally let the thing in through the window, and when chaos broke loose, the drunken throng chasing a wild raccoon and vice versa, Bart took action. He grabbed it by the scruff, threw open the fridge door, and blindly tossed the shrieking animal in.

“I’m not sure that’s a sustainable long-term solution,” Natalie said, waving their frenzied guests out of the kitchen.

“I realize that,” Bart said. “Gimme a second, I’ll think of something.”

“C’mon, farm boy,” Natalie said. 

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Sunday Stories: “Kaleidoscope”

Jar

Kaleidoscope
by Lizzie Lawson

The jar was full of souls. Charlotte didn’t believe Jaci at first, but when Jaci revealed the glass container over the dandelion grass in her backyard, Charlotte could see for herself. Still in their navy jumpers after school, the girls huddled close as Jaci unscrewed the lid. Charlotte could see wispy bubbles swimming in the glass, iridescent and slippery. 

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