THE SHIFT // ANDREI ROMANOV
The rain started at six and hadn't stopped.
Not the clean rain of spring that washes the city and makes the streets smell like wet stone and something almost hopeful.
incubation // Ola Rydzewska
I walk up the stairs towards my flat. The staircase is cool, but the wooden handrail feels warm in my palm as I grip, pull, and then shuffle my hand upwards with each step.
the family // emily white
Ruin is not good at drawing cathedrals, and that hasn’t been a problem in their life until now.
Charcoal Husband // Tomias Keno
They’d put her in the side room by the vestry, the dusty one, where spare chairs were stacked to the ceiling, and a faded poster declared “Welcome new believers” in a font last seen on a yogurt lid.
Seeing Him // R.A. Morean
When he died, he left his face behind. Not just in photo albums or in frames centered on walls, or in the soft feathery folds of early morning dreams, but concretely. Like now.
The Middle of the End // Elena Ender
I can smell the tar bubbling up and oozing down the street as a sign of the end times. The cars get gobbled, and the drivers climb out of their windows to sit on top of their hot roofs until someone brings them a small bridge to get them to the sidewalk, a mound of pillows, or a plank of wood, perhaps. Our death is inevitable, but at least we can help our neighbor get back to their lawn where they step on frogs, fallen from the sky, croaking over and over.
Safety Procedures for Supposed Cadavers // Michael Murphy
Safety Procedure #1: Never respond to a knock. Yes, it could be saag paneer. It could also be a grinning psychopomp, wellness check, or Maxine Jablonski from 1A.
Sit and Spin | Brian Conlon
It was our first trip in years. A road trip to somewhere young people lived, and people like us sometimes visited. Recommended by our therapist to spice things up, to give us some perspective on what he called our co-dependent relationship with our cat Alex, who slept in our bed, and whose feline malaise we’d both, according to him, to varying degrees, co-opted.
I’ve an Idea Where to Put the Babies // Adam Peterson
It’s a very comprehensive plan, so I want you to listen carefully when I tell you what I think should be done with all the babies—
Step one—we put the babies on an island.
Her Cherry Aftertaste // Danielle Roberson
I am made of the ocean, but it is not made of me. I know this because it refuses to mix with my body, its many micro-organisms keeping me firmly on the surface.
A Shadow, a Snake // Lisa Piazza
It’s not every day you see a bald eagle at Serene Lakes, but I’ve seen a few before. Flying, perched in trees, their white feathers showing or skimming the lake to grab some trout, then speed off.
RE: Canaries // Nathan Nicolau
for Yasunari Kawabata
Dear sir,
I have to confess that there are still things I do not know.
Screamer // Julian George
Rubbing his mitts and clearing his throat, he warmed up with a few mi-mi-mis, the Caruso of Camp Bowie Boulevard. Finally, a truck rumbled past; he let out a scream. Not a soul heard him.
Do Not Resuscitate // Ashleigh Rajala
Nurses and doctors in hospices reported the terminally ill just suddenly feeling better. Emergency rooms had no more casualties. Heart attacks, car accidents, anything. They still happened, but everyone survived.
Trickle Back, Sad Sack // Lisa Piazza
Rae was a gray woman, then. Shadow-self. Seldom-felt. Gray night, gray sight. Out the window now she imagines the clouds form a window. A door. She could walk through it if she believed there was anything on the other side.
Avocados // Tana Buoy
Avocados
The blade presses against the first, and the insides give way before the leather skin does. Same with the other two. My throat constricts. Shaking, I drop the knife onto the counter, pick up the avocados and press them between my hands, a non-bright green mush oozing from between my fingers, shedding their suits and seeds in my fists. You were in remission.
Strawberries // Kevin Clouther
Strawberries
At some point he would walk to her, or she would walk to him. Maybe they would walk to each other. Or maybe this was a dream, an entirely reasonable performance of the unconscious mind. She would think, upon waking, that was something. But it wasn’t anything, not yet. She was still deciding who she would be, and he was deciding too.
Sonar // Michelle Quick
Sonar
Dandelion puffs hung like ghosts along the front porch. The house was silent. Seven peach pies cooled in the kitchen. Aunt Iris was out back, lying on the ground in front of Uncle Johnny’s shed, her blue dress darkened with sweat. Overalls lay neatly beside her. Her hand was in one of the pockets.