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Fiction

Illustration by Laura Ovberg

My father eats braunschweiger sandwiches, thick ones he squeezes tight to hold together. He holds them with the hand that’s missing a finger.

Dr. Merton gave Shelby Aronowitz bad news. The pain in her knee was osteosarcoma. They would have to amputate.

The voices were never voices, but more like the memory of sound—an echo off cavernous, sweating walls.

From his kitchen window, Nathaniel Foxx counted six bulldozers in the neighboring cornfield. Or what was left of the cornfield. It began with a For Sale sign that Foxx drove by for months, but ultimately ignored.

Your side lost, and it’s very possible it was your fault. But then again, it’s always your fault. 

The old woman shoved her fist deep into her mouth to stifle the harsh dry cough.

Alistair and I do our homework at the island in the kitchen while, at the stove, Mom stirs pasta fazool.

Kyle and I arrived at his parents’ house in the early evening. He had barely removed the key from the ignition when his mother, Caroline, appeared at my window.

The day had wrapped us up in the blanket of its heat and refused to let us out, so much did it love us. Or maybe it was just lonely.

I got stung. On my ankle, I saw three bees, and could feel them right through my sock.

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