flash
BY SHANE KOWALSKI
My mom says not to fall in love with a car. She coughs up into a tissue wrinkled in her hand. There’s blood in it. It’s dark and I’ve committed myself to going to bed at the drop of the hat of darkness. But I want to finish watching the movie with my mom. The red car, full of sex, runs over a greaser. We don’t see it but it’s implied.
BY HUGO DOS SANTOS
His flawless routine. The tea pot whistle: the slow pour: the towel draped over his head: his face over the bowl: the steam emanating. A home-remedy to soothe the pain.
BY MEGHAN PHILLIPS
We don’t braid each other’s hair. Can’t stand the yank tug of the brush, the drag of bristles over scalp. Warm breath on the backs of our necks. We sit knee-to-knee. Rub each other’s scars with cocoa butter. Pink arms pink thighs pink cheeks seamed through like C- home ec. projects.
BY WILLIAM HOFFACKER
These stories are the three spookiest entries in a series inspired by Dungeons & Dragons. Each piece's word count is exactly 210 (the sum of the numbers 1 through 20).
BY LAURA BANDY
We’re headed downstate and Natalie’s driving, she insisted, a Chicago girl who’s driven across Paris, Tokyo, the left side of London streets like a pro, so she can handle this, and I wake from a doze to find us weaving on my country road, corn high on either side and Natalie gabbling to herself, “It’s so quiet and there’s no light but moon and nothing’s moving and who knows?
