by Susan Knox The violinist, dressed in a scarlet satin gown, her ebony hair smoothed into a chignon, strides onto the stage. Close behind are the cellist and pianist in their graphite-gray suits and crimson ties. A fourth person enters, staying in stage shadows and carrying music for Brahms’ “Piano…
by Loren Stephens I moved to Los Angeles with my five-year-old son so that my ex-husband, a literary agent at the time, could take on some parenting responsibilities since he had no desire to travel across the country to Boston, which he had escaped after our divorce. I interviewed for…
by Kristin Lieberman On June 30, 1994, I returned home from brain surgery to insert a catheter into my mid-brain, the center of my brain, and drain a congenital cyst in my mid-brain—a cyst so large that I was in a wheelchair within a week of its discovery. My hair…
by Cécile Barlier I seem like a perfectly normal person. No one suspects I count wiggling worms as I go to bed instead of counting sheep. Oh! I know! This is not a good strategy! You’re thinking, “Why is she counting wiggling worms when she can count sheep like everyone…
by Cameron Burry Jensen Barnaby doesn’t like you. If there is one thing that he could say directly to you right now, it would be just that; he doesn’t like you, so stop acting like he will tolerate your incessant need for affirmation. Jensen Barnaby thinks that you’re vapid, odorous…
by Cyndy Muscatel Olivia couldn’t stay in bed. The silent coldness from the warm body next to her drove her out. It was past midnight as she crept down the stairs. The wind lashed against the French doors in her living room, whistling through the cracks. The sound was her…
by Nina Welding CHAPTER ONE At Esmee’s apartment, September 2012 Gerde rang the buzzer. Nothing. Once more. Still no answer. Esmee was never late for work. She always opened the bake shop and was usually standing behind the counter sipping her coffee when Gerde arrived. For years she had joked…
by Doug Sovern People think I died ten years ago. Hell, even my own agent thinks that. I called there the other day. “Abe Vigoda for Mort Bloomstein,” I say. The gal on the phone goes, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Vigoda is no longer with us.” And by “us,” she…
by Michael C. Keith Things have come to a pretty pass when [man] is allowed to invade the sphere of private life. –– Lord Melbourne “Somebody hid a micro camera in the President’s bedroom!” whispered White House staffer Scott Piffin to his girlfriend. “You’re kidding!…
by Thomas Joyce Inside a jail in Poland: October 1946 Sitting alone in his cell, 26-year-old Father Yakub Paskievich, suffering from the effects of a bad beating inflicted on him, lowered his head. He wanted to think, sort things out, but he became aware of a distracting noise, a dripping…