Fiction

Lost Was How Everybody Said It

Susanna Baird

Albert Ducharme lost his fingers, they said. Pointer on his right hand, lost. The one just next to it, also lost, though there Albert still had a stub that wiggled when he waved.

The Assassin

George Gao

The assassin was from neither here nor there, though he spoke all their languages. He operated mostly at night time, under cover of alcohol, smoke, lust, and other elements of intoxication. He was smooth with it—baiting his targets into empty, unassuming locales.

Sunshine

Katherine L. Hester

The park, the woman’s voice says in Tina’s ear. —I got your name from someone at the park.

Leaving Auckland (part three)

Monica Macansantos

Two days later, as he sat before a computer screen to talk to her, he thought of how their plans ceased to frighten him when a pane of glass and thousands of miles separated them both. On the phone, or on Skype, all she asked from him were words. And words, as they spilled from his mouth, revealed more about him than he thought they would.

Leaving Auckland (part two)

Monica Macansantos

He was going to visit her in Wellington, he repeated aloud as they drove past houses with grilled windows and dumpsters with graffiti swirls on their lids. He took Maya’s small, slender hand as they both fixed their eyes on the empty streets of West Auckland, reassuring her, when she questioned him, that he meant every word he said.

Leaving Auckland (part one)

Monica Macansantos

Maya was fast asleep in her loft when Paolo rose from his airbed, his thin travel blanket falling away from his knees.

Adrift (part two)

Kenny Marotta

On Friday I saw I would not have to worry about Mrs. Sproule straying.

Adrift (part one)

Kenny Marotta

1895. Mackerel sky, light chop on the water: a morning for painting.

Friday Prayers

Haitham Alsarraf

A small concrete mosque resides in the center of a residential area. Light brown, cracking paint wraps its simple geometric walls. One minaret stands erect on the southern corner, silently heaving toward the sky.

The Living

April Sopkin

Marguerite ducked into the wind and rode the mare through the darkening valley, past the crooked shapes of abandoned homesteads and towards the sun as it slid behind the hard, perfect line that expressed a distance she hoped to one day know, but could not yet.

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