Prose

“IKEA Even Sells Cheap, Do-It-Yourself Metaphors For What To Do With Your Drunken Sailor,” by Mars Schupsky

Aug 20th, 2019 | By

I woke up in the water, well below the surface but still in the light. When I breached, I gasped and looked for safety. He was floating not too far from me, leg up on the back of the IKEA couch, his hand in a bag of chips, passed out. Even as I swam over to him, calling his name, he didn’t wake up; not until I almost tipped the thing climbing on.



“Kids These Days,” by Benjamin Davis

Aug 20th, 2019 | By

I look behind her into the hut. Warm air flows out.

“I uh, saw the smoke.”

“Yes, it’s fine, I’m trying to cook some children.”



“Submission Caws,” by Rebecca Gomez Farrell

Aug 20th, 2019 | By

A black crow swoops onto the open window ledge, and yearning gushes from deep within me. I tamp down the emotion swifter than the crow can deliver its charge: a rolled parchment that bangs against the bookshelves as it flips toward the floor. The crow musses its feathers and launches into the air, off to retrieve its next assignment. Soon, someone else will receive fresh misery.



“Boondockers,” by Sheree Shatsky

Aug 20th, 2019 | By

A thin guy wearing a Comic-Con hat stands outside the screen door of my RV.

“Sorry to bother you. Is it okay to park here overnight?” He speaks in an accent I can’t quite place.



“Long Time No See,” by Alex Z. Salinas

Aug 20th, 2019 | By

I sip morning coffee at a Starbucks I’m at every Saturday and pretend to read The New York Times. I skim headlines, wonder how wonderful it’d be if I actually read the articles.

I look up and see Bob. I haven’t seen Bob in three years, not since I left my last job. I’m not thrilled to see him, but not unhappy either.