Special Issue: Triptych
Points in the Air: A Triptych by Melissa Goode

A funeral procession moved through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Burano. Four men carried the coffin on their shoulders. They were followed by people wearing mourning black. I would have you for another ten years. I didn’t know. The Italian winter light was brighter, warmer, than we expected.

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A Triptych by Mary Thompson

A little boy is blowing bubbles. They whorl and drift and swirl and he reaches his arm into the air to catch one. Pop! His blonde sister giggles and shoots some more, while an elderly lady staggers up, hand on hip to watch.

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Canyon Vista: A Triptych by Charmaine Wilkerson

Before the shouting starts, you hear the baritone bell on the far side of the canyon. A dog joins in with a howl, cutting through the chili-chili-chili of the morning birds and the gurgle of the fridge and the flick of your dental floss.

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Her Story: A Triptych by Sarah Freligh

Four nights straight the stranger sits in her section paying for cans of Pabst from a pile of tens. Friday night, they park at the reservoir and pass a silver flask, make bets on what’s Mars or stars. Next morning, he’s long gone, along with her purse full of tips and a new pair of panty hose.

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A Triptych by Barry Basden

For three days, the Traveling Wall—half, maybe three-quarter size—stands on a hill in a far corner of the fort, away from the bustle of the main post. Families of a certain age and old-timers in boonie hats file past shiny black panels.

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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.

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.

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.

Morse Code by Elizabeth Cabrera

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.