Fiction
You know how it is. You think you’re married, you’re married to Albie forty-two, what is it, forty-three years, so at least you know Albie. Right?
“Dina,” she said, “you’re the least romantic person I know. For you to be a wedding photographer is too hilarious to pass up.”
All that time I’ve been working here, mopping the floors, emptying the trash, washing down rooms, and watching the wet-behind-the-ears young pup doctors learn their business.
Aunt #1’s plastic toilet lid shifts under Manolo’s weight as he balances his left ankle on his right knee, careful so his leg doesn’t slide off his sweatpants.
Two months after the loss of my only child, whose death—for which I am responsible—came in an unspeakable manner, I stand in line at the gas station, waiting to pay for my gas.
Erin Cherry reads “The Emperor of Blue Stone,” a story by Frances Park
Earl was always chasing pussy when he was alive, so it was no big surprise when he came back as a weiner dog.
