By Don Tassone

If only she could stay put. At this point, all she cared about was the safe delivery of her unborn child. And yet she knew they would all be in danger if they didn’t leave soon.

And so the next morning, she and her husband packed only what they needed for the journey and headed south on foot.

Given her condition, they walked slowly and rested often. At night, they either stayed with strangers who would take them in or slept under the stars.

After five days on the road, she could go no farther.

“We need to find a place where I can have this baby,” she said to her husband. “The time is near.”

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By K. A. Tutin

Megan carried the tray with shaky hands, the glass of orange juice and dry toast clanging against plastic. The juice had expired a week before, and the bread had spots of mould, but it didn’t matter anyhow. It was better than feeding him whoever was on their last legs.

Beneath the porch, it was dusty, coated with dewy cobwebs. He liked the dark.

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By Rebecca Field

They said on the news they would dredge the canal next. She had been missing for ten days—it was “out of character.” She “wasn’t the type” to just run off without saying anything.

Stories like that always made me feel sad: the fuzzy school photograph, the tear-streaked faces of the panicked parents, desperately begging for their daughter to get in touch, the dour-faced policemen with their statements to the press and requests for information. But the sadness was fleeting. Maybe the stories had become too commonplace. I felt as if I had become conditioned to feel no more than a passing regret before I would forget and move on to something more important to me. Something real.

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By María Castro Domínguez

She was sure he’d catch the bus, this time she’d really try. She had seen him so many times yet didn’t feel brave enough to approach him even if he was alone. Plus her father was such a nerd, all he did was get in the way of her social life. Hardly the easiest way of making friends, especially with guys.

Thelma looked at the mirror for the last time before leaving. Her nose as usual like a deformed potato stuck out. No make-up could change that. She had always wanted to be an actress and overheard Mary say once that Holden’s brother worked in Hollywood. Perhaps she could get him to introduce her to D.B.

“Surely with my pointy boobs I’d make it in a big way, never mind my nails, I’ll cover them up with falsies. Anyway, who’s going to look at them with these beauties in the way,” she said to herself.

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By Jody Falco

We worked. They had jobs. We worked in publishing, in magazines. In training programs that taught us how to move up in the world. They had careers.

On the weekends, there were parties and drinking and music. Maybe they had brunch on Sundays. We wore black. Short dresses and pointy shoes, with a low heel so we could run when we needed to. Those girls wore pastels, in lime and pink and canary. Even if the party was a black and white.

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By Kurt Mullen

Near the crowded Spanish-tiled neighborhood, my tires rolled through the grubby rust and bright plastic festoon, right over questions I would not ask because I wanted to go on feeling this way, in the tropical heat, this shimmering undulation, this falling in love. At his house, he’d come out of the bathroom with his shirt off and his wide-brimmed security hat on his head, calling me big guy and shouting: “How much do you weigh?” and “What do you do for exercise?” Continue Reading This Story