What Chekhov Meant to Tell Me by Jill Bronfman
Anton and I were in school together, and while he was a year younger than me, he seemed like an old man to me.
It Never Really Happened by Jaime Gill
Guillem arrives late, as always, rapid-firing apologies at his boss as he bustles through the beach bar and pulls on his apron. He stops at my table first, pointing to my near-empty glass. “Another beer, Miss?” Miss. Sweet, when I’m old enough to be his mother.
Kingfisher by Rebecca Croser
My husband and I have our backs to the sea, fixed as we are on the puzzle. Plywood, 527 pieces, laser-cut with bird whimsies.
Me and Barnaby, Alone by Travis Flatt
For the week after the shipwreck, the Strongman and I lived off bananas, but he got sick off some tropical bug from bad stream water he guzzled uncooked.
Shit Brick by Jack Barrie
Shit brick. That’s what my cousin Harry called it. He’s from Oxford. Nice down there. All the brick that way has a lovely gold-cream color to it, but I like our shit brick better.