Annalee

Annalee

Annalee was her name. I say was because she’s no longer with us but you should know she was my Aunt Annalee and she was forever saying strange things to me like, “You’ll never understand what’s sitting inside or outside the ocean, so the best you can do is try.”

The Disappearing Act

The Disappearing Act

For the third week in a row, Janet forgot to shave her legs. The first time she forgot was on a Sunday when she was changing into her swimsuit for Joel’s pool party. Janet looked at her legs as she slipped on the pink bottom to her tankini and after

Letter to the Editor

Letter to the Editor

HEREAFTER the subject of women’s underwear will not be treated in the letter-press of THE LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL. The editors have reached this conclusion for the following reasons: First, the changes in this part of a woman’s wardrobe are not either sufficient or material enough to justify extended chronicle. Second,

In The Bag

In The Bag

His skin was old and ashen. Not ashen like a cigarette but ashen like the scorched embers of a campfire that had been left burning too long. Nikolai was the exact opposite: A tan-skinned, lanky figure of twenty six, with sun-dipped curls in his hair and a bright rose to

Sincerely and With Feeling

Sincerely and With Feeling

As the black crow flies, so too does the luck of anyone brazen enough to steal from the Painted Desert for the sake of a vainglorious because I can. Such a creature of inordinate vanity cannot, by the laws of moonlight and the writs of sunshine, remain unpunished for very

The Tale of Astrid the Beautiful

The Tale of Astrid the Beautiful

Somewhere in the untamed French countryside near Versailles, on the border of all that was good and evil, once sat a small patch of wild lavender, and just beyond, a smaller spring. An accidental journey brought Astrid to this spring, its water tumbling like wet poetry across flowering earth. She

Revelation Underground

Revelation Underground

Making its way toward 59th Street, the subway was but a metal serpent slinking beneath Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Moments before, the doors of the 1 Train had slid open and four or five sleepy passengers emerged, settling with their foil-wrapped deli lunches onto blue plastic seats. It was the

Pizza Cat

Pizza Cat

I did not feel very Monday Warbly tonight so instead here is a strange tale I wrote about a food kind of animal … enjoy? – Melis The rumors are true. The Pizza Cat is real. How do I know, you might ask, skeptical gleam in your eye, that such

The Big Secret

The Big Secret

Rat-a-tat-tat went longish nails on old wood. She sat at the time-abandoned Rathskeller Pub, waiting. Three tall jack-and-cokes into her Sunday afternoon, the strange man finally arrived, a wiry figure dappled in late-day shadows. The man looked almost wizardly with a long, white beard and smooth, white hair woven into

An Interview Near Signal Street

An Interview Near Signal Street

By Melissa Kandel The subway car came to an abrupt halt. “Signal Street!” With a polite nod to the plumpish redhead whose morose stares he had endured for the larger part of his 57-minute trip from Eagleshead to Signal Street—“So sorry miss, didn’t mean to bump you there,”—Daniel Plinkers departed

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