Table of Contents, Issue 117
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The woods spat Thomas into a clearing, and there they were: four men, one standing on the frozen lake, the others huddled around a smoking grill. Muffled reggaeton sounded from a portable radio buried halfway in the snow, antenna gamely perked.
Let me tell you about my precious son, Harry, who at one time occupied the body of a grown man and went to school where he was hailed as brilliant and ingenious by his peers.
I knew Israelia because she and I came from the same little hometown in Florida, a “podunk” place out in the middle of the state, where a truly beautiful and graceful girl like she was really means something to the whole community because they only come around maybe once in a generation.
The end of this story is when Angela’s best friend from high school, Madeline, is dragged by a bull shark beneath the sunrise-dappled waves and carried out to sea on a riptide.
Jesus, you would freak me out, all that pulpy ooze /
Leaking down your spear-driven ribs and, higher up,
Memory drove me to the edge of town /
and told me to get out. I refused:
Megan Harlan grew up on four continents, attended NYU’s Creative Writing Program, and now lives in Berkeley, California.
Issue 116: Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Art
We were packed into the back of a crowded minibus somewhere on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, heading in the direction of Lake Kuriftu and the city of Debre Zeyit, which hugs its shoreline.