Transatlantic Coffee by Neil James

I’ve pictured this scene a thousand times. A table by the window, people-watching in Manhattan, waiting for Sapphire.

Rush hour’s a restless river of frantic wipers, headlights, and honking horns. Rain bounces off the sidewalk like bullets while people in raincoats rush for doorways. Meanwhile, I sip a latte, watching…

In Florence by Kathy Prokhovnik

The entrance to their hotel is a heavy door directly onto the street. Behind the door is a little red-carpeted lobby and a high desk in front of pigeonholes and keyhooks. A young woman sits behind the desk, ticking numbers on a sheet of paper and adding them under her…

That Little Purple Pill by Douglas Young

The thought of struggling out of bed felt like a baby being expelled from a blissfully warm womb into a cold, merciless world. The twenty-five-year-old had battled depression since age thirteen, but had recently felt better dating her best beau since high school. That made his breaking up with her…

Bernhardt the Therapy Dog by Nicole Brogdon

My father wanted “a dog with big balls.” So he brought home an ex-police German shepherd, brown with black saddle markings, a Nazi dog. “Bernhardt”, his tag read. Dad the animal’s chest until he lunged, meeting Dad’s swinging boot.

Horseflies by Sam Christie

For once, there were choices available for Pisgah and me. I mean, they were all pretty bloody horrible, but at least we had a choice of how horrible. This would be a day spent doing the least worst thing, so we turned our attention to factors such as energy levels,…

An Unexpected Meeting by Sara Jane Green

I’d seen her several times before, this woman. Loitering on the steps to our small shopping plaza down the road, wild-eyed in Miller Street, its river of traffic churning around her through canyons of high-rise office blocks, peering into plate glass windows, advertising cellulose injections and other horrors, her expression…

I Hate Mondays by James Mason

Friday lunchtime is always awful. Alone at her desk, Sally eats a prepacked sandwich. The bread tastes wet and sticks to the roof of her mouth. At the empty desks, geometric shapes moil on computer screens. The lift door makes a sucking sound as it opens, and George ambles out.…

You Can Stop Crying Now by Molly Corlett

Yesterday, I met a litter of kittens that couldn’t yet see or walk. I think there were five of them. My daughter picked one up by the neck like the cat mothers do, except that she did it with the rough tenderness of a child, and it made the real…