by Sylvia Otmarsh
When Randall did that thing they say all men do, he always tried to hide it. He’d only do it when Susan was safely out of the house for a good spell: at her book club or her mother’s house in Montclair. She assumed this was because he needed a certain amount of time for his endeavors—whatever they were.

Read More...

by Bethany Champagne
you should write letters to the person who lives in
the apartment next to yours telling them how lonely
you feel,
separated,
as you are,
by the steel and concrete and plaster.
how many nights you lie awake thinking
about clawing through the walls until your hands are
bloody and raw. just to remove the barrier. just to be
closer.

Read More...

I was three years old and my new baby brother Daniel was dressed in a white christening gown, way too big for him, that contrasted against a black-leather reading chair in our living room. Daniel slouched left or right every time my father let go of him. It seems he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, sit up straight in the chair.

Read More...

“It’s okay, Bud. I’m here. I’m watching,” Glen whispered into his mic. Glen was nervous. He’d seen what could happen when a mission went wrong, and it took all the strength of his years of training to speak his words encouragingly, so that his partner on the other end of the link would be sure to stay calm and focused.

Read More...

For most of my life, all I had was suspicion. But then I came home one afternoon and checked our answering machine, and it was blinking so I pushed what I thought was PLAY, but the machine was brand new and I’d pushed the wrong button—or my dad had when he’d been in our house having sex with the only girl I’ve ever been in love with.

Read More...

Say you accept the notion that houseplants are sub-human entities not even worthy of a name. Consider this: would you care if your houseplant died? It is the circle of life,** after all. Shit gets born, lives, withers, dies, etc. Seeds and stuff. Seasons in the sun. Metaphors and all that.

But even though your houseplant is an “it” and not a Bert or a Larry, it is a living thing. And like any other living thing, if your houseplant intends to die,*** it will do no good to try to talk it out of it.

Read More...

Some mornings Melinda arrived before me and I wouldn’t see it until already hunting the rows for an open space. I knew she could see me if she chose to, for each day, although we never talked anymore, I made myself conspicuous. She would wait in her car, listening to the radio or talking on her cell phone, her enormous sunglasses hiding her eyes, her car engine percolating softly, and I would walk past, never able to catch her glance behind her shades, my own eyes occluded behind small circular shades so that, if she wanted to look over, she couldn’t read my expression.

Read More...

Diego rarely returned home to D.F. and when he did, he felt foreign, extracted. His lungs would hurt, the noise of the microbuses drove him crazy, and there was the perpetual waiting: for friends to show up, for the muchacho to bring the bill, for the concert to start, then for the plane to take off, to take him back to Chicago.

Read More...

I carry the bag of old clothes. It’s heavy enough that the garbage bag is stretched, with odd streaks and bumps in the black plastic. This is why I carry it. My little wife Marta’s not more than a hundred pounds herself, and she has back problems to boot. I’m her designated schlepper.

Read More...

“It’s stage four, for sure, and it’s growing fast,” Rich told me. “You know what that means. Shit. I’m sorry to be telling you this.” I’ve worked with Rich a lot, and I know he’s a sweet guy, but no one seems nice when they’re pronouncing a death sentence on your wife. I wanted to hit him for a second.

“She didn’t tell you any of this?” he asked.

Read More...

Ciela told me she takes the bus quite a bit since her accident, which I know I am not supposed to call an accident but no one gave me a primer so I slipped up once or twice. She’s still getting used to being a passenger, I can tell. She looks around, mostly at the other riders, and can’t decide whether to keep looking or not. Me, I like to look out the window. I like to watch the road and the countryside, so as to notice my surroundings.

Read More...

It was after 1:00 p.m. when I telephoned Kaplan, assuming that he would at least be up, maybe already in the kitchen, preparing his usual toasted bagel with bacon, mayo, and cherry tomatoes—and he was up but only just. A conspicuous hesitation followed by his voice, cold and irritated, acknowledged that it was in fact he, “Sidney Kaplan.” Needlessly I identified myself and he replied, “Oh.” The singularity of the word together with the sound it made between us, like a dull book slammed shut, set the usual tone.

Read More...