Pink
by Gareth Fitzgerald
She awoke on her stomach, wearing only his boxers, and before she opened her eyes, Cassie felt there was something in his boxers.
Sunday Stories: “Pink”
Sunday Stories: “We’ve Got A Pill For That”
We’ve Got A Pill For That
by Mallory Smart
I called my doctor because my brain kept lagging in the middle of conversations. Buffering like it has bad WiFi connection. She nodded and called it “existential idling” and treated it like it was a vital sign she checked hourly.
Sunday Stories: “The Quiet Fire”
The Quiet Fire
by L.F. Graubard
Eva left without a goodbye. That’s how the Narco Farm did it—people vanished between counts. One day you’re brushing your teeth together, next day her bunk’s stripped and the smell of her lotion is the only thing that makes sense.
Sunday Stories: “Flare”
Flare
by Madeline McFarland
Just after the New Year, I left early in the morning from Brooklyn for my next Botox appointment. It had snowed in the soft, heavy way the night before, and the sun had just risen, casting the street of brownstones in a light blue glow. The scene was still and mostly undisturbed—I traced only a few crunchy footsteps in the snow. The powder dusted the skeletal trees and the Christmas trees discarded on the uneven sidewalk between them.
Sunday Stories: “Nikita, Dave and David”
Nikita, Dave and David
by Wilson Neate
I had undertaken employment in the menswear department at Fenwick’s in the Brent Cross Shopping Centre. My co-workers and I considered our positions there to be interim engagements. We, of course, didn’t need these jobs. They were beneath us. We were just biding our time until we moved on to the greater things we envisaged for ourselves. We were going places. Eventually.
Sunday Stories: “False Spring”
False Spring
by Laura Freudig
The woman’s hair should have registered as a sort of warning. It was as red as a monarch butterfly, as red as berries. She stood in the doorway of the office, shaking an umbrella on the checkerboard tiles before propping it in an empty chair. She wore a belted black raincoat and high heels and carried a patent leather purse large enough to conceal an infant.
Sunday Stories: “Aping the Ark”
Aping The Ark
by Aug Stone
Just as the rumor persists that Noah’s actual name was Yoah and therefore an anagram of ‘Ahoy’, so do reports of other ark-itects attempting similar salvation at the time of The Great Flood. Including Noah’s childhood friend Antaeus who idolized him, imitating the righteous man in nearly all that he did. Truth be told, Noah was often annoyed by the misguided mimicry, as well as baffled by Antaeus’ bizarre choices for just about everything, such as the already urine-colored loincloth he gave Methuselah for his 500th birthday, but when the world’s ending and your buddy’s built a boat, well, you can rise above petty squabbles.
Sunday Stories: “We Buy Houses”
We Buy Houses
by Chloe N. Clark
My parents had been planning to move for as long as I could remember. They were always talking about picking everything up and speeding across the state, across the country, across oceans. But, they never did. Falling into the routines they’d built for themselves, the small comforts that make a life bearable. So, when they called me up that summer and said they’d sold the house, I laughed when they told me.