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After nearly six months of living in exile, her impulses have become dangerous and unpredictable. She hasn’t seen him in weeks, but she knows he’s there.
Inspired by the Richard Brautigan story, I Was Trying to Describe You.
The land froze nine months of the year. Any winter dead had to wait until spring to be buried.
A few of us stuff in before the subway doors pinch shut. A man slides his hand down the pole, clearing a place for me to hold.
From Issue 47, Luis Alberto Urrea
From Issue 26, Kevin Moffett
Just as the sun dipped behind the water tower, Lupe and Maria materialized in the street outside their trailer, fully formed, wearing oversized t-shirts and scuffed up plastic kneepads.
The abbé stands beside me whispering prayers and the man from the court asks again if I have anything to say…
A special from-the-archives edition of Flash Fridays, here’s Jamie Quatro’s “Caught Up” from our recent Ecstatic issue… The vision started coming when I was nine. It was always the same: I was alone, standing on the brick patio in front of our house, watching thick clouds above the mountains turn violent shades of red and [...]
I always cared about the explosions, but mostly I liked the whistlers, singers, and shriekers: the ones that screamed. Billy Acres and I bought a backpack-full from a fold-up table beneath the overpass. The old hippie had smuggled them up from South Carolina beneath a load of tie-dyed shirts. He said we had to buy [...]
From Issue 33, Lucy Corin
With David Wu next to me on a barstool, my mind turns to froth. I know him from town. His family makes up the entire Asian population in Daphne, Alabama.
Out on my bike near my apartment I passed a group of boys standing at a crosswalk.
Fuck you, ching chong chang, one of them shouted.
A special Flash Friday edition of From The Vault, where we feature favorites from issues past. The story first appeared as a “New Voice” Tin House #28. We live in Tasiilaq, the eastern tip of Greenland, where two jutting coasts curve in on each other like crab claws. We are ruddy and plump and strong. [...]
She was pretty enough. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t. Or maybe I would have. Because if it wasn’t busy I just stared outside of the window. The kitchen window, I mean, which looked out on to the counter. Not a window that looked out on the outside. Those were too far away from the kitchen to see out of.
That they were not working class was listed as a problem for them, something they construed as a problem in order to reach the troubles-quota that families from that region were meant to meet.
He keeps a small box in the closet. The bottoms of hanging shirts cover the box like a hiding child.
My manager is waist-deep in God, which is where I want to be.
From Issue 30, Etgar Keret
In the Apennines, he said. In the war, our patrol. A man of our unit took a shot to the gut.
He makes dinner while I sit at the two-top and watch. He lives in a house with three other people and a dog, a compost pile and various recycling bins. They hang their clothes on a line to dry, eat a lot of quinoa.
Once A Noted Writer of Avant-Garde Science Fiction, He Now Supports Himself Writing Restaurant Reviews For A Los Angeles Weekly, by Zak Smith
I have known chinamen. They are not all wheedling and gormless.
The wires had been fed into my father’s face. We stood around and watched him take it, and the white was gray really and I was older than I’d meant to be and there was no way now to stop.
It wasn’t easy to live in the woods, especially when we wanted the light on our heads. If only to know shoal and wave and dune.