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 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.