Fiction
by Jacob M. Appel
My father fancied himself a shrewd landlord—he refused to rent to lawyers, the children of lawyers, even a college girl who “had law school written all over her”—but he probably bit off too much when he sublet to the mime.
by Fiona Ennis.
“She was being tugged somewhere unearthly, towards a radiant light source, the same colour as those long fluorescent white lights that buzzed in the kitchen in the convent.”
After all the pain and blood, you almost begin to think of death as the next therapy, because that’s what it is, you realize. Death is part of the process.
by Sarah Yahm
The ants in her foot went back to work digging tunnels and palaces and palazzos. She willed them to leave but they lingered and malingered and trespassed.
Lydia dreamt, too. She dreamt of Carnivale, of the motorcade, motorcycles without mufflers and pickup trucks hung with paper cutouts circling the island.
Even numbers are smooth and sweet, and can all be divided by two, which is the most perfect number of all because two means love: husband and wife, mother and child, man and dog. That should be obvious to anyone.
At what point, I wonder, does a person say enough is enough? I can’t go through with this; I didn’t pick the ending I’ve been given. I would dearly love to keep the next few years of my life.
by Joon Ae Haworth-Kaufka.
“You eat more and more, until you feel sick. Your mom says people are souls, but not you. You’re an empty body, filling up and up and up to make the emptiness go away.”
by Vishwas R. Gaitonde
Summer sapped the energy out of us all, the patients in the waiting room under a whirring fan and I in my consulting room.