by Maureen Sherbondy
The woman missed the ocean desperately, so she took a drive to view the waves and sand at her favorite North Carolina beach. In a bag, she packed a day’s worth of collected shells, one dead starfish, and a shark’s tooth. The tooth was so sharp that it cut her finger as she set it inside the bag. She also filled a plastic container with sand and a glass vial with salty water. Continue reading
by Tom Gammarino
No one knew exactly why or how she died, but millions witnessed it in real time. Even though she didn’t breathe air, most agreed that she gasped at the end like a drowning victim. Queries of “Siri, what happened?” and “Siri, are you okay?” joined the hundred thousand others hanging in digital limbo. Continue reading
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