The ocean is a woman and it is dreaming, dreaming, Ekaterina thinks as she holds the hardsuit’s arm open, ready to clip a sample.
Read MoreAt Night She Dreams of Silverfish
Three pieces of toast—dark on one side, light on the other. A cup of coffee. Rosh’s preference is Blend 14, with hints of Sub-Saharan Africa and caramel, delivered tepid with more milk than expresso.
Read MoreThose Left Behind
When the news said three more young men had been found dead in their homes, Grace knew her mother had come to town.
Read MoreThe Feeding of Closed Mouths
His grip tightens, turning the picnic into murder.
Read MoreWhere the Flowers Bloom So Fair
But the ferns have turned Papa's thoughts to slow, ponderous things, moving the way a fighter does just before they hit the ground. Fresh fiddleheads unfurl from his skin each night, bobbing merrily with his breath each morning.
Read MoreThe Ferns and the Fiddleheads
I crawl out of the persimmon, and it isn’t pretty. A grown woman unfolding from a fruit that could fit into your hand: sinew restringing itself, organs inflating, nails clawing at the floor.
Read MoreChị Tấm is Tired of Being Dead
The rain fell slantwise to beat against the picture window in the front room. In the next room over, Dear was dying.
Read MoreBoth Hands
He said it was a hole, right there in the middle. In the middle, he emphasized in a voice that was a little too excitable for what I needed in my life at the moment.
Read MoreThe End of the Middle
When kids are adopted from the orphan home, they’re carried away on the back of a nimble cow, its hooves clanking on the road, the sound dampening across the woods while the white lines scrawling the skies turn to dots.
Read MoreComplete Log of Week 893819 – Dana’s Story