SHORT STORIES
Baby Steps
by Erin Brookins
Walks become a sanctuary and Leah is always desecrating them.
We need to talk, she says. About things.
Moving Targets
by Will Marsh
“Used to be houses,” he says.
“Well, glad I’m here to help,” I say.
He draws back. “This isn’t reality TV.”
The Road to the Studio
by Natalie Lemle
Not that it matters to Felix, but Per isn’t interested in talking about his work. It’s too dreamlike. He’d been going for the feeling of a fugue state, chaos glinting with beauty, not beauty itself.
Gone to the Beach
by Max Blue
What are they looking at, Amy and this man, in which they see rain? The clouds? Cloud patterns?
Only the Moon Comes Back
by Elizabeth Erbeznik
This wasn’t so much a story as a warning. Some things are supposed to end.
Second Helping of Grits
by Julia Mallory
She loved the way he held his mouth. Like his teeth were meant to balance the weight of his jaws. All his features moved in unison.
Out Here Where Things Make Sense
by Alex Goetz
My headphones had broken at some point between the end of my flight and when I arrived at the intercity shuttle stop. I realized this a few minutes after the trip had begun, and it became clear that I would have to engage with this experience in a way I hadn’t been prepared for.
Windows
by Lillian Yuan
The first time Jonathan notices the woman, she is crying in an orange bath towel. Night is falling, and her apartment is the brightest square on her side of the courtyard. Her body is blurred, separated from his by distance, glass, and wilting plants scattered across her windowsill.
Our Little Reunion
by Cheryl Chen
I could often hear the soft thumping of your footsteps circling the living room; the restless shuffling of your slippers as you paced around. I don’t think I had seen you this anxious since I spilled a pot of boiling hot pu’er tea on your favorite mahogany chair, the fancy one that was embellished with moire patterns, each swish and swirl of the clouds carved meticulously into the wood.
Murmuration
by Jasmine Liang, Jacob Witt, and Rebbecca Brown
The river rushes to meet the setting moon, carving valleys across an empty field. A rustling was all that sounded in the plentitude of a night gone dark with minute shadows. The snap of a stick, the rending of a branch, and, then, nothing; impacts, collisions, bends around trees, and, then, nothing.
Chinchilly
by Erin Shea
I feel the urge to dissect a peach with gloves on. Slide the knife beneath the fuzzy, flimsy skin and pretend to be a doctor.
My Condolences
by Cameron Bocanegra
Nicole and I met in college. Between our shared part-time jobs, we swam in the local lake after sunset, where she swore that she could walk on water. The every-other-day sleepovers included orange-flavored liquor, hair dye, cigarettes, and long silences, but the silences fattened uncomfortably while our GPAs soured. I only ever chewed my nails when the drama of her lawsuit was snowballing through national media. Her paranoia was contagious. I agreed when she said her lawyers were keeping secrets, a historical institution was plotting against her, and receipts felt like being followed.
The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo
by Josephine Mitchell
We invited the state to our wedding, the defunct state of California, and it gave an awful toast. We never should’ve invited it, but we were in love and we didn’t care who knew it.