fiction: Wait A Moment
While he was putting the greasy knife into the cutlery drawer, in the fork section, upside down, it had all already happened.
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fiction
fiction: The Vault
The music leaked through the open door and sank into the carpet. With a slight gesture of the hand, Paula invited her client into the therapy room while she lagged behind just enough to breathe in and exhale deeply.
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fiction: TEAMS
The job is not fully remote, but because no one cares, you are. Most of what you see of yourself is in the box in the corner of your screen. Your eyes are always off kilter, because you’re not looking into the camera; you’re looking at yourself.
fiction: Survival Game
Survival Game I hadn’t slept in a month, but I kept with the routine anyway. Get up. Work. Wine. Bed. It was the best I could do to take care of my wife and six-year-old son, a survival game that kept a roof over our heads and plenty of takeout bags on the table. Though
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fiction: Brown Flour
Brown Flour I was talking to Mehmet. The chat was dragging out, for two reasons. One, he was lying. Two, the impatient queue behind me was too terrified to interrupt us. In keeping with the times, each person was keeping a self-preserving distance from the next. “Seán, I am not lying to you,” said the
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fiction: A Real Stand-Up Guy
A Real Stand-Up Guy The green room at LMAO is not really a room at all. It’s a 10 x 20 foot space sectioned off from backstage by musty drapery that often overlaps, making entry or escape a difficult endeavor. Yet, in either witty taste or cheapskate irony, the curtains are all green. At one
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fiction: The Choices We Make
the Choices We Make We are born. We die. In those events we have no say. We believe what happens between those two events is completely our doing, a result of the choices we make. But you cannot outrun fate. You’re 17 years old, living on a farm north of Philadelphia. One summer day, your
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fiction: Procrastination Notes
Procrastination notes I To Avoid Procrastination, Never Have a Romantic Relationship My girlfriend Flo just left our first-floor apartment at 15 Móinéar Street to clock in at her job as the manager of a boutique fashion retailer in downtown Boston. She does not have a license, so she hailed a car through a rideshare app.
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fiction: Ice Cream
Ice Cream I turn and see Blake struggle up the pot-holed street. Directly above him, an old woman smokes on a balcony, her bare arms resting on its metal railing. Blake looks like a tourist. An American tourist. Which he is. Basketball vest, baggy shorts, battered trainers. A back-to-front baseball cap. Two years in London
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fiction: Oedipus Rex Walks Into a Bar
Oedipus Rex Walks Into A Bar I found him at the bar. ‘May I join you, Your Highness?’ ‘Glad to have the company.’ He motioned vaguely to the stool beside him. ‘I’m not the king anymore, so you can skip the formalities. Call me Ed.’ ‘I’m Homer.’ He extended his hand in my general direction.
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