Issue #18
Hum by Tara Isabel Zambrano

The first time the tall girl brings a dwarf home, she’s unsure. But the purpose is to get away from exotic, immaculate men and ordinary routine of sex and breakups.

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Other People’s Mothers by Patricia Q. Bidar

Other people’s mothers’ hair is the shade of a new penny. When their husbands leave, they hire us to paint their bedrooms lavender. We take breaks to lift the lids of shoe boxes stacked in the closet.

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In the Fishbowl by Hun Ohm

In her fingers my sister held a spoon, and in its bowl the spoon held a goldfish, which in turn held its breath as it beheld the dry world in its shiny, unblinking eyes.

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Watch Us Go by Jessica Barksdale

My parents named all our cars: Wilfred, Arthur, Barnie. By the time my father bought the Volkswagen squareback, no one was in the mood to name anything but death.

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Game Theory by Merridawn Duckler

Becky is a bully. Her sister, Corey, should have been a boy. These are facts which Corey knows to be as certain as the word facts, fat middle letters fenced in by two taller guard letters.

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December by Fred Muratori

Death is rarely timed to match the logical end of something else. My father died in December, but my mother died in January.

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Coats by Gary Fincke

The morning of the company president’s Christmas party, my wife Christine read me a story from the newspaper about a woman found hiding in a neighbor’s bedroom closet.

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Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.

The Storyteller of Aleppo by Donna Obeid

In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.

Get Your Authentic Stardust Here by JP Relph

The night the sky cracked, I was sprawled on the hood of my car beside that good-for-nothing boy, naming constellations, ignoring his fingers on my neck.

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.

Amelia Earhart Knew Seven Latin Words for Fire by Joe Kapitan

Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks