Fiction

Our Mother

By Ned Carter Miles

This year was my turn to light the fire, and I chose to do it on top of a rough black stone that looked unmistakably like Ernest Borgnine—the same roundness and folds. No one else knew, but earlier that day I’d come to the beach in our mother’s car and caught a mackerel—which I hadn’t done since I was a child—gutted it with a pocket-knife, wrapped it in foil, and buried it under a layer of flat stones before resting Borgnine on top.

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Fiction

Lunch Special

By Mimi Wong

On screen, a woman dressed as a nurse hooked up a heart monitor to a man wearing only swim trunks. Meanwhile, another woman, this one in a string bikini, performed a lap dance. A male host announced that the man’s heart rate had jumped from 96 to 120.

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