Issue 20 / Winter 2020 The elevator comes and goes, comes and goes. I stand in a stupor, oblivious to the whooshing of doors opening and closing. Mundane functions like getting into an elevator seem irrevocably unimportant while my thoughts jump radically...
Issue 20 / Winter 2020 It was a fine, large-windowed restaurant she led him into, their heads already a little light from the martinis at the first bar. She wore a dress that brushed just the top of her knees and fit pleasingly over the parts of her body that...
By Roberto Loiederman (Editor’s note: This is the third and final installment of this serialized story. Read parts one and two.) April, 1968 – At sea, approaching San Francisco Bay We’d been at sea for more than three weeks and I had a bad case of channel...
By Christopher Woods You watched him as he kept messing with the cord that ran from the oak tree in the middle of the yard to the new bird feeder. You thought it would never hang at just the right height to please him. You kicked the ground with the toe of your...
By Kerri Pierce 10:00 a.m. The sky is ominous. Bruised. Like a scraped-up leg. (Like that time she flew off the bike and he came running.) A hidden sun stains the low-lying clouds: green, black, blue, gray, reddish-yellow in places. The sky looks grotesque. (“Your leg...
By Edward H. Garcia “You’re not that kind of Mexican,” his father said more than once. David Alvarez knew that made his father sound like a racist. A more nuanced analysis might have concluded he was an elitist. His father would have said he was a realist. It first...
