Late last night Barney pinged me, a man I barely knew but liked, a bearded farmer I’d snogged once at a wedding.
Three stories by Daryl Scroggins
Nobody can leave so everybody looks out their windows into other people’s windows.
Waiting for time to catch up by Rosie Garland
When he goes downstairs, his mother is not in the kitchen. She’s not in the bathroom or the yard.
Distance by Natalie Teal McAllister
Per the arrangement, their indefinite work-from-home statuses, they are required to sign documents outlining their necessary functions, their necessary hours, their necessary communications.
Empties by Kathleene Donahoo
Where are they, those bike-men in their tight bright shirts? This time of day they’re always here on the sidewalk outside the sandwich shop.
Surveillance by Nuala O’Connor
Putin looks at me with love, then lunges and bites my finger, his sharp little teeth vising my skin.
Heart-wrenching by Rick Krizman
In the ‘60s—the 1960s not the 2060s—it was said that all you needed to fix any Detroit car was a half-inch wrench.
Two stories by Alan Michael Parker
When the price of eggs went up and up, and then there were no more eggs, that was it. He made a raft from various pillows and a laundry basket, stuck a broom for a mast, enough of a flag.
Saying the same thing by Evan James Sheldon
We’re sitting at a metal park bench, the kind wrapped in soft, protective plastic. We aren’t touching.
The Safety of Citrus by Faye Brinsmead
I’m self-isolating inside an orange. The shadows of previous tenants kept sneezing in my flat.
The Girl In Purple by Bobbie Ann Mason
Conversation in Hotel Lounge by Lydia Davis
Two women sit together on the sofa in the hotel lounge, bent over and deep in conversation. I am walking through, on my way to my room.
Lady Gaga Considers the Shrimp Scampi by Steve Almond
There were fifty thousand little monsters screaming for an encore, Spaniards, Germans, skinny little French boys, Italians making wet sounds with their tongues.
Fun House by Robert Scotellaro
She’d gotten the fun house mirrors at an auction and had them put up in the spare bedroom.
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.