A Strange Call from the Mountain, by Feroz Rather
For several days, he steers his battered lorry through the Ganga’s plains. Without delivering the load of 300 apple crates he ferried over the shoulders of the Himalayas to Hindustan, he decides to return home.
Second Midnight, by Devi S. Laskar
Perhaps it is the spectacle of Mother Nature. The special science field trip in the eleventh grade, on the very day her sister misses school because of food poisoning (someone had laced the brownies with Ex-Lax at the neighborhood picnic the afternoon before). A moment of unparalleled beauty.
Alligators, by Tara Isabel Zambrano
The stare of the gypsy girl, taut as a cable. She sits opposite to me, next to an older woman, probably her mother, in an open truck.
Barri Ammi, by Palvashay Sethi
You know her. Have heard of her through cautionary tales with the caution being
dispensed dubious at best and unnecessary at worst.
Fuck All Gall, by Abeer Hoque
She first saw Sure at a pub in town. The place was like a cellar with wooden pillars in awkward places which made it hard to dance but easy to look all angles. Galway was thronged per its Saturday usual, pubs packed, the cobblestone streets streaming with people. The weather was warm, and there was a sheen on people’s faces, more than just the drink.
The Storms, by Sarah Thankam Mathews
The week before I turn thirty-four, the rising waters flood my stupid, spiteful Red Hook rental for the second time.
Bump, by JP Kemmick
The day we moved into our new home, my husband, Roger, dropped a box and out spilled his collection of vintage little green army men. A machine gunner got stuck upside down in a sidewalk crack and an infantryman stumbled toward the sewer grate.
How are you gonna eat a peaceful breakfast after your incredible night of sex with the surprisingly-experimental woman who as a girl was in the Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes commercials? by Simon Pinkerton
After I slept with the woman who as a girl had been in the Frosted Flakes commercials, every day I imagined myself as Tony the Tiger a little more.
The Good Boy Club, by Delaney S. Saul
We are Good Boys.
We are in the Good Boy Club.
We follow the rules.
We do what we’re told.
The Pied Piper of Pepperton County, by Matt McGee
In 1966, the residents of Pepperton County were perfectly happy to go to work, attend church, mow their lawns and make occasional love to a husband or wife they’d chosen when the moment seemed right, before the moment passed.
How to Make Love to a Physicist, by Deesha Philyaw
How do you make love to a physicist? You do it on Pi Day—pi is a constant, also irrational—but the groundwork is laid months in advance.
Good Girls, by Lindsay Ferguson
We’re on a smoke break when Claudia tells me that her husband said she’s ugly when she cries, and I almost ask her, What he do, what happened this time, but then I think, Don’t be a fool, this is what you been waiting for, and I take her hands, look into her eyes, and start to give her all my best ideas on how to leave Greg
HBCU Love, by Lauren Francis Sharma
Of course, Evelyn would bring up the list. Because, inevitably, Evelyn will ask Sanaya about a man. And it won’t be in the way people asked when Sanaya was in her 20s or 30s, it’ll be in the don’t-mean-to-but-have-to-ask way of her 40s.
The H in Heartache is Silent, by Diana Veiga
The front of the white envelope had her name scribbled in purple ink. She had not noticed it before when she had first grabbed it from atop the pile of stamped mail, but now the more she stared, the more she could see that he had squeezed the letter ‘H’ between the ‘C’ and the ‘O,” as if he had forgotten how to spell her name.
The Manual for a Boy’s First Grill, by Derek Andersen
When you awoke this morning, you were a boy. But tonight you’ll retire to your racecar bed a grown-ass man with hair on his chest. Assuming you don’t singe it off first ha ha.
Jenny Watches the Exorcist, by Emma Stough
in her sleepless room with the shades drawn and a bowlful of neon peach rings. Blue TV light is radioactive, but after years of exposure, Jenny’s skin has grown a thick, radio-proof layer. It is gummy to the touch.
The Day When Nothing Happened, by Leigh Raper
August 3 is most well known in the United States as The Day When Nothing Happened. In the United Kingdom and the European Union and parts of Eastern Europe, it is also known as Nothing Day. The Day has never been recognized for unique remembrance in Canada, as it has never been determined to be remarkable.
The Virgin Girls, by E.J. Schwartz
The Virgin girls are not virgins. The Virgin girls are not virgins—not yet. They are here to redo themselves and reassemble their youth.
Polycystic Ovary Syndrome: Reimagined, by Téa Franco
Nothing seemed off until I was fourteen years old, eating handfuls of soil straight from the bag. My mom caught me one day with brown flecks in my braces and called the doctor.
Witness Statement, by Yamilette Vizcaíno Rivera
I’m just glad everyone knows now.
The neighbors know. The children know. The visitors know. It’s not just the chair legs and the light up pineapple sitting with the imprints of things that weren’t supposed to happen anymore.