FICTION
 

Memory, Foam by Jordan E. Rosenfeld
We bought mood rings on the boardwalk. We were having our be-children-again-day together which was also, actually, our save-our-relationship-day.

— You'll see how much better we feel after this, you told me...

Ice by Alexis Wiggins
Bubbles trapped, suspended. Motion stopped. I scrape my hockey skates over them, spray shaved ice all over Ethan who stands flat-footed, trying to keep his balance in brown loafers. Free-skate ended an hour ago, but I am still practicing. I have the key my uncle gave me, and I'm allowed to lock up on weekends...

The Color of Water by Theresa Hammond
Claudia — perched on the edge of the toilet — leans over her knees and plays with the small white tag sticking out from her panties, which hang around her ankles, the little pink strawberries coated with blood. She pulls her ankles apart so they don't touch the sticky mess and wonders what the little black words on the tag say. She guesses it says made in Taiwan by number 251, but hopes it gives instructions for washing away womanhood...

The Queen of Burlesque by Wayne Scheer
When Fanny Grossman turned eighty-six, she decided she'd had it with life at the Magnolia Village Assisted Living Home in Peachtree City, Georgia. In fact, she was fed up with Peachtree City and its gated communities, the state of Georgia and, especially, Nellie Mae Karr and her goddamn Southern accent. Nellie, the perennially smiling director of Magnolia Village, oozed so much sweetness, Fanny feared she'd lapse into a diabetic coma as Nellie approached...

Juan's Last Stand by Geona Edwards
Juan pointed with his head only at the African, who was talking to Jose.

"I'm telling you — at the end of the street, the end," Jose was saying, as he wiped down a table. He looked over at us and shrugged. "Is it my fault he doesn't speak Christian?"...

Ripe Fruit by Deborah Rothschild
Each morning Grenouille stands behind his rickety wooden table piled high with mangos next to the entrance of the tin roofed marché. He shouts and glares at the women who avert their gaze and ignore his calls rather than look him in the face. He is a short, squat man. His eyes bulge and his broad, black forehead glistens with sweat giving him a startled, amphibious expression. The large, purple goiter on the left side of his neck pulses wildly as he shakes his fists at the passing shoppers, their white hands clutching money filled purses that they open for him only as a last resort...

The Garden of Eve by Martha Gilstrap Verlander
A grove of tall dark pines. Dusk and deep shadows. Gun-metal clouds boiling overhead. A shaft of light through the clouds, a spotlight on the garden in the center of the grove. The filtering of light through dust particles in the air. A dusty smell of aged wood. Of damp and faint decay...

Girl Meets Guardrail by Colleen Neumann
Seven forty-five. I'm marooned dead center in bumper-to-bumper L.A. rush hour traffic, an oxymoron if there ever was one, and I can't get that stupid fucking song out of my head. It wouldn't be so bad if my radio hadn't croaked last week; it wouldn't be so bad if the sun was shining; it wouldn't be so bad if I was inching my way to a job that mattered. But it did, it isn't, and I'm not...