Fiction

This content is only accessible to logged in members. Please login to continue.

I It was three days after Christmas when I came home from work and found the gift bag leaning up against my door. “Love, Aunt Gloria,” read the card in her spidery cursive script, the kind that stymied children. I pulled a tin of cheap mint chocolates from the bag. Frango was stamped in bloodred …

Winner of the 2024 Robert and Adele Schiff Award in fiction At night I kept my Jesus folded small in the corner of my closet, arms under tucked knees, dark mangled locks beneath the cotton dangle of buttoned shirts I didn’t wear. That’s where I charged him too. Anywhere out in my room would have …

In the days following the tragedy, after the funerals were over and even the local papers had moved on to other stories, Albert stopped leaving the house. For a couple days he put on a performance for his father, who was on bereavement leave from the university, where he was a professor on the history …

On the night of the break-in, I was upstairs painting my daughter’s bedroom. I hoped Erin would see it as a surprise, a kindness, but with kids, you never know. The week before she’d asked us to paint her room ocean blue, and I’d said that was too dark a color, that she’d regret it, …

We’re driving the largest cleanup in history. . . . We let the plastic come to us, using the ocean currents in our advantage.—Boyan Slat Dear Boyan Slat, Honestly, I thought it was beautiful how after the rain drenched everything, the creeks rummaged through the holler, coaxing out all the plastic milk jugs and Clorox …

It was a warm midsummer night and getting dark now as Emily and a group of close friends sat on the grass of the courtyard, drinking beer and talking about orgasms—how it wasn’t always easy for women to have them. They had gathered to say goodbye to Emily, who had spent the last year in …

Ivanych stumbled out onto the porch, squinting against the cruel brightness of snow. Not a curl of smoke rose over the village—everyone wintered in the city now, or finally rested in their graves. Too bad he’d already filled the night bucket with yellow ice. It used to be the bucket never needed emptying, but lately …

“Now you need not die again, but still I wish you were here” – Katherine Anne Porter, Pale Horse, Pale Rider My nephew is writing a book, he says, about Martin Luther King, Jr. “Now why would you do that?” I asked him. “Pick a topic without so much competition. Who’s going to read your …