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.
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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.
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by Angela Nishimoto
Using the de-thorner to flake off the extraneous, plucking damaged, unsightly petals one by one. Thorns, leaves, stems, petals scattered around my feet. At this time and place, roses needed to be in bud to sell. If they were bloomed out, they were trashed; like other produce, they had a short shelf life. Continue reading
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by Russell Thayer
Maggie waited on a barstool, ready to enjoy a night of hot jazz. Another long day of restaurant work had ended, and she was finally free of her custard-yellow uniform, white apron, and the idiotic mutterings of her co worker, Eve. The thought of Ronnie Johnson’s Combo on stage soon at the New Orleans Swing Club made Maggie snap her fingers with excitement. She’d dance tonight if a man asked her. Someday she might even get up on stage and beat that old piano herself. Continue reading
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