The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.
Electric Storm by Kathryn Aldridge-Morris
It’s been twenty minutes since the first bolt of lightning ripped a scar through the purple night sky. Since my mother said to swim in the rain ― it’s fun. Since her boyfriend Colin said he’d join us― to check we’re ok.
The Wonder of a Sea Sponge by Marina Hatsopoulos
Offstage, I pick flowers from my curls and accept congratulations from soccer team-mates, AP Bio geeks, the francophones from Spring Break in Paris, the overachievers from the boat I cox, and other groups to which I sort of belong, but not really.
I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours by Eliot Li
I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.
For a Summer They Lived Underwater by Cathy McArthur-Palermo
After the burial, Jeanne dove into those places in the lake where the water was deep, held her breath, skidded under rocks, past the beer cans and the red and white lures.
Do you ask to be married to a dress by Mandira Pattnaik
I heard the woman who pastes little rounded discs to sun-dry into cow dung cakes on the backyard brick wall, mislaid a basket of ripened yellow bananas this morning, left it at your door, the equivalent of a marriage proposal.
From Zero to Infinity by Carol Ann Parchewsky
You can sit there as long as you want. On top of a pixelated mushroom in a fir-filled forest. Singing a song like a Eurovision vixen or dancing as loud as a Disney princess in fuschia or lilac embroidered tulle dresses.
The Watchtower Seasons by Rosaleen Lynch
Summer High—Before dawn in the summer high off the dry and cracked ground we scramble up the watchtower’s wooden struts, hand after hand, bare feet following, replacing one with the other, like climbing clavicles you say.
Sandwich by Sara Cappell Thomason
This morning I watched my ex-husband assemble our daughter’s lunch on the hood of my car. He was grocery-less and late to drop her off at school.
Little Red Riding Hood by Katerina Kishchynska
Grandma gets her episodes at least once a month. She’ll grow out her jaws and if it happens on a rainy day, claws will tear out of her fingers.
Hermit & Bleeding Faucet by Ana María Shua
With the population now well aware of the physical and mental benefits of asceticism (low cholesterol, bradycardia, a delicate sense of happiness, spiritual fulfillment), everyone wants to become a hermit.
Initiation by Stuart Dybek
The doors snap open on Addison, and the kid in dirty hightops and a sleeveless denim jacket that shows off a blue pitchfork tattooed on his bicep jogs forward beneath a backward baseball cap and grabs the purse off a babushka’s lap.
Café Mozart Dreamin’ by Tracey Meloni
Judie bangs on my hotel door. “The dressmaker is here! Hurry! You have Christmas lunch with Noah at Café Mozart at 1PM!”
Their Closet by Pamela Painter
“What are you thinking?” her husband asked her. In their twenty years of marriage he had never asked her that.