by Andy McQuestin
I walk him there along the thin streets. The small houses pressed up to the curbs, potted herbs balancing on window frames painted in primary colors.
He carries a walking stick. He wears slacks and a button up shirt: the comfortable shoes that await all of us who live long enough. Men of his generation never dress down.
“Just the other side of this block,” I say. He nods. 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
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 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