By Rae Stringfield

The gossip in the time-clock line claims someone found a bullet casing this morning. 

“Not true,” Jess whispers, watching the trail of ants winding along the baseboards toward concessions to reach the syrup puddling beneath the soda fountain that’s been leaking ever since she’s worked here. “Haven’t they seen cop shows? No way they’d miss that—they need it for evidence.” 

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By John Brantingham

Ever since you left West Virginia, Ellen’s been typing and searching through her cell phone. You’re about ten miles outside of Pittsburgh when she says, “Take that exit.”

The sign says it’s the exit for the airport. You take the exit, not saying anything for a while until you’re nearly there, and you ask her which terminal, and she tells you, and you say, “So this is the end of our trip together.”

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By Eva Silverfine

Amber wanders the aisles of the truck stop. She and her parents linger, warming up because the heater in the truck isn’t working. Her parents share a coffee, passing it off to one another as they wander about the store, managing surreptitiously to refill the cup. Amber knows the routine.

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By Santiago Márquez Ramos

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Itze found the country of México crouching and hiding and hissing underneath a stone bridge in Central Park. And like any nine-year-old interacting with a wild animal, he approached it sideways, saying, tsk tsk tsk in a reassuring whisper. 

The country of México, covered in broken feathers and grime, gave a low growl. Its shape, more than ever looking like a broken heel, pressed against the archway further, scrambling to get away. Its hide, green and white and red, looked bruised and tender. It reminded Itze of his mamá’s hands, after a long day of work, of the song made of colors she hummed. 

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By Deborah Thompson

So, I’m here, on this bridge over the motorway, waitin’ for a guy. It’s early, and the chill in the air is kinda painful. The road’s dead empty. You’d think, even at this time in the mornin’, when the night is startin’ to gray, there’d be vehicles. It’s desolate. That’s the word Desiree’d be likely to use, if she was here.

I’m feelin’ bare heavy, like gravity’s too much for me. I’m slumpin’ over the metal railin’, when I’m makin’ out this figure at the other end of the bridge. It’s a bird, a young bird with a righteous body, as is obvious by the way her thin dress kinda folds around her. So I limp over there for some chirps, and I see she’s not so young after all. 

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