Category: Fiction

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

Xeno-Biology

By | Fiction

In the years that followed, we did without domesticated fruits and veggies, stationery, good carbs, marijuana, cardboard packaging, kombucha, toothpicks, bad carbs, pulpy thickeners, essential oils, stevia, ugly carbs, and flat pack furniture.

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

Strange Foliage

By | Fiction

We do not breathe. The woman does not breathe, either. The house murmurs, the heavy figure in the bedroom turning over in his sleep.

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

KinBo!TM

By | Fiction

He’s a lion pacing behind bars. We watch him prowl and slither and lope through his cedar bedding. We squeeze him and risk bites. We spend our allowance on his Magic DustTM diet that looks like microbeads and smells like nail polish. Our devotion lasts a fiscal quarter.

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

The Shunned Woman’s Dictionary

By | Fiction

Reason n./v. Weeks later I reason he isn’t worth losing my job or my friends or even the morning rituals that make me feel at home in my body. But his roots are under my skin.

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

Laughter

By | Fiction

Smooth and silent, the door closes behind me. The empty corridor; the sound softer and softer. Can I still hear it, or is it just a leftover in my ears?

Issue 22 | Summer 2019

Geppetto’s Workshop

By | Fiction

All he’d been hearing was that Pittsburgh was the new Portland, the new Brooklyn; it was artsy, it was culinary, it was ripe because it was politically progressive and a hipster couple could still afford to buy property here. Byrne was unmoved.

Issue 21 | Winter 2019

Everything That Rises

By | Fiction

Had she invited him on this trip? She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. She avoided Hae-won—Auntie had a vision of the young mother inviting herself over for dinner, the evening ending with the single mother crying on Auntie’s couch, spilling her troubles into the air, where they’d hang like the smell of rancid oil.

Issue 21 | Winter 2019

Bob and Joe

By | Fiction

Bob remembers telling Laura about Joe over pizza years ago on their second date. “It’s not uncommon for only one twin to be miscarried,” he explained while pouring wine. “Its tissue sometimes melts back into the placenta.” A small stain bloomed over Laura’s upper lip, and Bob fought the urge to kiss her. “Sometimes its tissue melts into the mother’s body. I think Joe’s melted into mine,” he continued. Laura smiled, the wine-stain spreading across her face. “I wondered about that dimple on your leg,” she teased, “I bet it belongs to Joe.”