Wallstrait

There is a seam in my face. I don’t know where it came from. I wasn’t born with it, and I don’t remember any injuries that would cause a seam-like scar. I was scratched by a cat once? But that was on my cheek beneath the eye, and this is where the bridge of my nose joins with the rest of my face. Also, the cat scratch wasn’t bad enough to leave a lasting mark. There is a seam in my face.

He ignored it at first. Something hard beneath the surface, pressing against the skin left of his stomach as if trying to get out. Need to lose some weight, Darryl thought, dismissing any cause for concern. He knew there had been no family history of cancer—none of the tumors, lumps, or growths passed down in other families like eye color or buck teeth—not even among his extended family of aunties and uncles, bastard sons and daughters, half-siblings and cousins many times re

After every execution, the governor of Oklahoma wants to get laid. Technically, he always wants to get laid, but death penalty nights make it seem especially imperative.

The first thing Kylie did was go through the woman’s fridge. Frosty green grapes rolled inside a plastic bag. And plums like frigid nipples sat upright on a porcelain plate. An assortment of Tupperware containers held various premade pastas. She imagined those noodles, soft and boiled on an adulterous tongue. Or perhaps al dente, coated in the sauce she saw sitting on the bottom shelf, sprinkled with fresh cheese and chased with an expensive glass of wine.

I needed a break from the conveyor belt of school, boyfriend, career. That clapping song we sang as little girls: next comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby. . . . So I left the lower forty-eight for a job waiting tables at a remote truck stop in Alaska. I placed my relationship on hold. A big Hold up! on everything. I didn’t know who I’d be when I got back.

Analise didn’t mind the taste of dirt so much, but the tread of Becky’s shoe was pulling her hair, and it felt like the pressure might cave in the back of her head. A crowd of kids surrounded them, chanting and jeering at her, but she was adept at tuning them out. As far as she was concerned, it was just her and Becky, alone in this thing.

The driver’s seat bucked backward, out from under me, and my face spread briefly, like a blot, over the inside of the windshield, and my eyes migrated earward, and I was birthed raggedly through the glass, like clay through teeth, and I fluttered languidly over the asphalt, and struck a neighbor’s yard, in a rain of screws.

The bump had stopped hurting by the time Natalia got to the waiting room. Wasn’t that the classic scenario? Tooth stopped hurting by the time one got to the dentist? Long, scraggly hair looked great the day of the haircut? She hoped it was still there, fought the urge to go check the bump in the bathroom. For days it had been bothering her, though she had to admit she’d only noticed it during masturbation—not due to pain.

A courier, a little man, a tiny man in a vest and harness bag, knocks, recoils at the opened door, and hands the note to you. Your mentor from the pier has died.

The rain keeps beating on the window, and the baby is crying, and she holds him, feeds him, rocks him, looks at her phone, hums a lullaby, feeds him, rocks him again, and her cheeks are wet, and now she realizes it's dark and she hasn't turned on the lights, and she doesn't know how many hours have gone by. She can't go on like this. She goes outside.

The execution of Thomas Mitchell was scheduled to begin at 11:00 AM on December 7th and was formally called to commence at 11:01. Twenty-seven journalists, twelve photographers, and two relatives were in attendance, as well as several guards, the presiding district attorney, the Riverside Penitentiary physician, and a local sommelier.

Editor's Note: This is a unique piece, a powerful story based on the author's real-life experiences growing up in a religious cult.

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Rachel Savage | Issue 2.5 Lacey planted her baby in the family grove, nestled between Granddaddy’s chestnut heavy branches and Granny’s...

His wife was having tea with the king, and he was completely unaware.

Everyone else saw the spider on Thursday. Well, it wasn’t a spider. Not really.

On the morning of the code red drill, a man hunts me in my dreams once again.

Hell consists of a series of menial tasks. Sometimes we draw circles in the sand with long sticks; sometimes we draw lines.

I watch the red and sweaty late-night preachers wipe their brows, hoist their heavy Bibles up, wrestle invisible demons down...

One: "Earthquake" She spoke this word shortly after ten in the morning on February 26th, according to her physical therapist.