Fiction

If her head gets cold, it starts to hurt, so on days when the sun cannot dry her hair on the short walk from the sea to Grandma’s house, Alfhild’s father massages her scalp until her thin, little body stops shivering under the towel. It has become a routine, a ritual almost; Alfhild finishing her …

Finally, fifteen months after he died, I get my son’s death certificate in the mail. There it is: the manner of his death, the time, date, place, and also his name. It’s misspelled, both first and last. His middle name they got right. “I like the name, you like the name. But you just know …

Piya has just turned thirty. She works in her family’s hotel. Tonight she will become pregnant. In twenty-some weeks, she will lose the baby, and the state of Indiana will sentence her to twenty years in prison for feticide. One year for every week. But for now, it is early on Tuesday, and on Tuesdays …

Peng Soon had knocked the glass of vodka and lime out of Paul’s hand at Taboo the first time they met. He had swung out his arm to illustrate a point in the story he was telling—a recent sexual conquest on a business trip to Taipei—and his hand met Paul’s glass. Unruffled, Peng Soon ran …

    Assistant Editor Molly Reid: Margaret Emma Brandl’s “Mukbang” is a subtle critique of our current political situation, a nod to fake news, an exploration of cultural preoccupations with image and internet celebrity, and a sensory extravaganza—in 378 words. It’s a doozy. Also, if you’re not already familiar with the practice of mukbang, Google …

Wendy can’t help hovering outside the den when her fourteen-year-old daughter’s older friend Harris first comes over to play video games on a Saturday. They’re talking about a woman named Cora Goodnight, all over the local news for killing (probably) her three husbands and her pastor. The church-directory photo posted with each telling of her …

It’s winter in the sturgeon-spearing capital of the world. Once again, there is justification for the expensive trucks parked in the driveways of crumbling lakeside houses, waiting to be turned over and driven out onto the ice. Standing on the lake, which you can barely see across, is like being on a planet people are …

You could still do it. Over there, on those metal shelves lining the cinder-block wall, you’ve got the whole building’s supply of aerosol disinfectant, drain cleaner, and double-A batteries. Six cases of off-brand nondairy creamer, too; they’re stamped do not store at high temperatures, so you figure the stuff must burn. In your pocket, sweat-slick …

Señora Pérez’s house was too small for the four of us to go inside. El Míster and my abuela waited out front. My mom and me sat at the round table in the corner of the kitchen, my mom stabbing the rotary dial with her index finger. Sra. Pérez sat on her sofa watching a …

Just enough Luis knows I’m not in love with him, although he’s never asked. I can tell by the way he fits himself around the space where the question would go, always aware of the outline of it, the sharp edges that would catch and cut him if he got too close. Some days I …