by Tani Loo
“Do you wish I were a boy?” I ask my father.
The question lingers in the air, as I grip the gold container of six by one and one-eighth drywall screws. I move the screws around with my right hand, fingers sorting through and arranging them, so that they are all facing the same way. He doesn’t answer my question at first. Instead, he holds out his hand for a screw, and I pass it to him. Continue reading
by Mark Brazaitis
The first trouble was the boy.
Mike Little said he was lonely. He missed his parents and his brother. He missed his bedroom. He missed the café at the corner of the two busy streets where he used to meet his girlfriend after school. This was, of course, before she broke up with him. He was with us because she’d broken up with him, he confessed. He wanted to show her he didn’t need her—he wanted to show her he didn’t need her or the entire earth. Continue reading
by D. M. Kerr
The hallway that led from the print room was unnaturally narrow and long, part of Darwit and Lee, Lawyers’ drive to maximize useful office space. From where he stood, Eng Chun could see Eunice approaching well before she was close enough for him to say hello. Today she wore a tartan kilt, in a kind of Japanese style, with a frilly hem so wide it almost touched each side of the hallway. Her black-strapped pumps made a clicking sound on the linoleum floor, and between the pumps and the fray of the kilt stretched a pair of very shapely calves—to which Eng Chun tried to keep his eyes from returning, this being an office. She wore a cream silk blouse, with a triplet of pleats on each side of the buttons, and, above a short, frilled collar, a bemused smile. Continue reading
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