Issue #35
After by Claudia Monpere

and after and after and nothing changes, just the names of the children. This one drew birds wearing hats. That one had an orange juice popsicle for an imaginary friend.

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Prudence by Christy Stillwell

They put the shock collar on the boy and that was it for the nanny. First they put the collar on one another. They were professors in English and Philosophy, all of them smart people.

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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

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Huey on Beauty by Kai-Lilly Karpman

Good morning. I am a beautiful man—thank God, I guess. Religion doesn’t speak to me. The sun rises, waking me like a dear friend might. Coffee can boost your cortisol levels—never touch the stuff

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Crotches and Feet by K. McGuirk

I was chatting with a new friend at the café. I’d been sitting alone with a crossword when she came by and sat herself down. I’d heard about her before I met her.

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Ugly Baby by Molly Foltyn

You were an ugly baby. As the first, you had a difficult journey, paving the way for yourself and then me, and your head came out pointed like a traffic cone.

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Revision by Beth Kanter

I immediately accepted Anne Frank’s invitation to join her for afternoon tea at Koffie ende Koeck, Amsterdam’s highly rated vegan cafe a mere scone’s throw away from the apartment where she almost grew up in Merwedeplein Square.

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Pet Shop Boys by Tim Craig

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

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.

Carry On by Lucinda Kempe

Once there was a man who loved his donkey, but his donkey didn’t love him back. The donkey loved an eggshell, but the eggshell didn’t love it back.

Grief Sandwiches by Lucas Flatt and Travis Flatt

I’m in the elevator with the angel.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
“You can eat peanut butter again.”
My mother hated the smell of peanut butter. As kids, my brother and I got it all over everything. Mom said it smelled to her like dogshit.

The Bronze Medal by Vincent James Perrone

She wants to meet the pig—snout down, paraded through the town square of sodden earth and
stump dimples, now trailed by serpentine line of freshly showered farmer with tomato noses and
breath prematurely soured from all that auctioneer talk.