by Julieta Vitullo
With the dining room now closed, Nabil joined the last guests at their table while they dipped cold spoonfuls of rice in the leftover curries. They were a red-headed young man in a tie-dye shirt, and two blondes who looked like sisters. An odd lamp sat on the shelf above their table. Earlier that night, the young man had asked Nabil if there was a story behind it. Nabil had said to wait until closing. Now, the few sounds that remained from the East Village roar faded into the vibrations of a sitar coming from the dining room stereo. It was time. Continue reading
by Joy Luh
Silver. It was everywhere. Always. A flash of the underside of a bird’s wing as it caught an updraft. The color left behind when a fly is there then gone. Maybe the reflection of a passing plane in a puddle, whose stillness has yet to be disturbed. Everywhere. Perhaps the color that someone with synesthesia would see to accompany a sweet note. It was the small things, the dots floating around in his vision that he could never quite catch. The color that went hand in hand with the sound of a ring dropping onto a cold and unforgiving floor. The color, or what he imagined the color to be, of the varying screws and bolds and plates all wound up in his body. Continue reading
by J. T. Townley
So I rang the bell, Chuck answered, and we stared at each other through the screen door. You remember Chuck. He had a cold beer in his hand. He still wore his uniform, though untucked, shoeless, no gun. He grimaced at my companions, then said: Continue reading
by Karen Wunsch
On an overcast day in December Sophie, thirty-three, had lunch with her dad at a small French restaurant near the Museum of Modern Art. He used to eat there with his parents. She and her dad particularly liked the omelettes. Looking out the window she saw it was drizzling and realized she’d forgotten her umbrella. She knew that although her dad was going back to work and she’d be going home, he’d urge her to take his.
by Trish Annese
I meet M. in Prague on a lonesome Sunday in March as I chase a lost turquoise scarf down an asphalt alley and she retrieves it, stepping from the recesses of a darkened doorway—a mistress of ceremonies stepping into the spotlight—and restoring it to me with a flourish.