What To Call the New Fish
or
How Sex the Unstoppable Fish Machine Got His Name
by Chrissy Kolaya
Emily suggests William Henry Harrison, after the finest president this country has ever seen.
Sunday Stories: “What to Call the New Fish”
Sunday Stories: “Blue”
Blue
by Gideon Leek
“I hate you I hate you I hate you.” That’s what Nora texts me. Today is her birthday. Two days earlier, I’d mailed her a letter. I don’t think she liked the letter. The letter was Plan A. Now it’s time for Plan B, which starts with a flight. Well, two flights.
Sunday Stories: “Eighteen: Twenty-two”
Eighteen: Twenty-two
by David Tuchman
“This is my punishment,” Moshe decides as Yoni’s minivan flips over the median on the Harlem River Drive and smashes upside-down into the asphalt, sending bits of shattered windshield skittering across the Amsterdam Avenue exit. “This is what I get for daring to speak.”
Sunday Stories: “I’m Just Saying”
I’m Just Saying
by Tom Andes
Seventy-eight degrees, Remy thought. It was 78 degrees at the Fall Fête, and Donald had shown up for the gig in head to toe black, Levi’s and a thrift store suitcoat, with white Doc Martens, like a total psycho.
Sunday Stories: “Temporary Suspension”
Temporary Suspension
by Garima Chhikara
On her way home, Tanya is thirty thousand feet above the ground, heading toward a place that feels more like a layover than a destination. For now, she hangs in suspension, the aircraft’s frosty silence swallowing the static in her head.
Sunday Stories: “Representatives of Future Money”
Representatives of Future Money
by Perry Genovesi
Emma made it through two sets of security scanners. She set on her game face before meeting Mr. Barnaby. Then they were strolling through the verdant walkways of Collegiate Gothic towers, clean brick, and lush pine.
Sunday Stories: “Storage Unit”
Storage Unit
by Emily Grandy
It was a damp day in December and Roger’s mother had been dead six weeks when a call came in from an unfamiliar assortment of digits. He’d been turning into the empty parking lot of the shopping strip, thinking about buying salt for the walks, when his phone rang. Normally, he would reject any unknown number outright, but the 440-area code—one he knew well, that of his boyhood, and of his recently deceased mother—gave him pause. It was less curiosity than suspicion that prompted Roger to answer the unexpected summons.
Sunday Stories: “Good Boy”
Good Boy
by Charles Holdefer
I don’t always listen to my dog because he can be a whiner but last night we were talking about the possibilities of afterlife and accounts of near-death experiences where someone travels down a tunnel toward a bright light which opens onto joy and sometimes a reunification with lost loved ones.