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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Husband by Sara Cappell Thomason

I want a house, a wife, a steak dinner and all my bills paid on time. I want to settle down in a house and get paid. Dinner from my wife served on time

The Subtle Light by Hetty Mosforth

Word of mouth gets him the job and gets him past the gatehouse. He tramps towards the house like a stray dog, turrets and crenelations coming into focus.

Pet Shop Boys by Tim Craig

Dayne’s on-off-off-on stepdad, Kel, says stay away from that new pet shop.

Glass Flamingos by Catherine Roberts

I smash them all. Because who the fuck collects glass flamingos? Around me, pink shards sparkle in the carpet like pretty vomit.

On the Morning Dance Floor by Alex Juffer

Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.