By Kumar Sen

The first thing that disappears is your name.

It doesn’t vanish dramatically. No thunder, no announcement. It’s just missing from the places it should be. The barista hesitates when calling your order. Your email signature defaults to blank. Your phone unlocks, but the contact labelled “Me” is empty.

You notice this on a Tuesday, which is unfortunate, because Tuesdays are when the city does its audits.

By noon, you receive a letter.

[Read more…] about Inventory of a Missing Person

By John Jeffire

Why she was invited for her son’s promotion, the banquet and celebration, she didn’t know. And by that, she did know—deep down, she knew—but the pain of knowing is not worth its admission.

So when or where does the story begin? Long ago, with school drawings and report cards kept in the bottom drawer of a scratched hutch in the living room? Prom photos still displayed in the hallway? Voicemails asking how the job is going, have you found someone? Or did it begin moments ago in his living room where she was sorting his laundry? No, of course not. Nothing begins where we say it begins. But that’s the only place to start—nowhere even close to the beginning. 

“I said not to do that.”

[Read more…] about A Hard, Hurtful Thing

By Michael Getty

The time traveler has yet to exchange spoken words with the man who is topping him. After all, they have just met. He finds the sex pretty good, so far, but when their eyes meet, it’s all wrong. The angle. The rhythm. The man. Everything.  

“Sorry,” the time traveler says. “I’ll be right back.” What must it feel like to suddenly be fucking air? The time traveler has wondered about this on occasion, but it will soon be moot. 

It’s a minute ago, and the time traveler is in his living room, pulling the hookup’s license from his wallet, where it lay in the loose association of clothes on the floor. Flesh slaps in the bedroom, and yes, the rhythm is definitely wrong. Too fast, for one thing. The hookup’s name and address will come in handy, but the time traveler notes that he also photographs well. That’ll be a nice touch.  

Then it’s half an hour ago, and the time traveler materializes back in the bedroom, picks out some nice clothes, and is waiting when his younger self emerges from the bathroom, a towel about his waist. 

[Read more…] about The Time Traveler’s Grindr Hookup

By Tina Wingham

I sat quietly, hands clasped on my lap beside his grave. The cemetery had a strange chill that engulfed me, and the scent of rotting roses burned my nose—that sweet, metallic tang of death pretending to be perfume. I tried to breathe, but even the air felt heavy, thick with the damp of old and half-remembered graves. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long until I could join my Reggie.

Reggie was so strong and brave; he had always been by my side. When he smiled, the world softened, and everyone was kinder to each other. He died last week, and since then, the silence of the house had become unbearable, his chair still pulled out, his cup still sitting on the bench where he’d left it. But the nights were the worst. The ticking of the clock felt like a heartbeat that refused to stop, even when he had. So tonight, I came here to St. John’s, the church where we’d promised each other forever.

[Read more…] about Whispering Corner

By Susanna King

“Look at her boobs,” Zach hissed, side-eyeing some college-age girl in a yellow bikini.

Ivan and Andrew looked. Ivan mostly focused on the girl’s regal unibrow.

Andrew gave a cursory nod. “Yuh,” he said.

The line to the nearest ride stretched to oblivion. An old woman in front of Ivan picked a wedgie. She was trying to be discreet, so he averted his eyes. At first, he stared at a dry ornamental bush in a bed of wood chips, but his eyes kept returning to the woman’s shoulders—they had a complex pattern of freckles and shiny birthmarks, some of which very well could have been melanomas. Ivan felt, against reason, that he wanted to reach out to her, to tap her on the shoulder and warn her. Maybe she looked a little like Aunt Irina. Maybe she wasn’t that old, anyway. Her hair was like straw, and she seemed to be alone.

[Read more…] about The Stand-In

By Susanne Alethea Larssen

She was dying. He saw it the moment she walked into the little cafe.

He saw it in her skin, in her eyes, in the way she moved.

But the surest sign was the boots—long, red patent leather boots that clicked sharply against the dirty tiles.

She moved as if her hips were unhinged beneath that tight skirt.

But the boots—ah, the boots.

~

His sister, Enid, had worn boots like those when she came home that night.

“Whore boots,” their father had roared, and their mother had cracked under the force of his voice.

[Read more…] about The Red Boots