LAG TIME
By Steven Church

If there is an objective measure of a “split second” it would have to be close to the time between the flash of intimate lightning and the sound of its ear-stunning crack, a noise that tingles up from your toes, and ripples through your belly—a sound the body hears before the ears.

THE BACK STROKE
By Marcia Aldrich

Then something happened. My legs stopped kicking, and I flagged vertical, a sudden period in the water’s graph. I lost forward momentum and it never returned. Some thing, some impulse or invisible hand turned me onto my back, flipping me over to a place I have never been and never wanted to be.

THE SOILS I HAVE EATEN
By Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Each bend of cypress root drinks a soft fen mud. Each beard dangling from a branch says: I am a dirty man who had soup for lunch. The state soil of Florida is Myakka—a fancy way of saying, Sand, sand, sand, and if you dig further still? Watery sand.

WHITE LIES
By Erin Murphy

We had been taught that there was no comparative or superlative for different. Things were either different or the same, the teacher said. Likewise for perfect—something was either perfect or not. But surely Arpi thought of Connie as more different than herself.

NEW CRAFT ESSAYS

In our Craft Section, Drema Hall Berkheimer visits those moments when the muse seemingly has better things to do, and Sharon DeBartolo Carmack outlines the ways a writer can put proper flesh onto the bones of ancestral stories.

ON MY BIRTHDAY, A WISH FOR MY MOTHER
By John Calderazzo

Come morning, my mother led me to her screened-in porch. Bent inside from years of arthritis and widowhood, she pointed to the water and named each bird she’d learned to welcome to her long indoor life: great blue heron, anhinga, snowy egret, glossy ibis, wood stork, spoonbill.

DEVOTION
By Sarah J. Lin

When I was twelve years old, a boy named Sherman decided he loved me. Sherman repulsed me, but my feelings did not sway his devotion. Whenever he saw me he gripped me in a number of uncomfortable, humiliating embraces, and no matter what I told him, he stubbornly insisted that I was his girlfriend.

DUPLEX
By Danny Goodman

In that late morning, the phone vibrated, informing me of an awaiting message. A voicemail. He started: “Hello? I think this is your number. I hope it is.” He said: “I’ve been wanting to call.”

THE MOMENT
By Fleda Brown

I had been depressed, aimless, and vacant: a mother-machine, with a new baby, and Kelly, who would soon be five. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed at home with the kids.

SPOILED LOVE
By Jenny Spinner

A woman stands outside a closed door that barely mutes the roars and cusses on the other side. Her husband shifts beside her. Inside is her man-son, whose matted black hair I glimpsed as they hurriedly wheeled him into the room. I am only making guesses, but I have plenty of time to piece it together.

I CAN'T STOP THINKING OF THAT NEW YORK SKIRT...
By Diane Seuss

I bought it on E. 7th St. in a shop that was only open for one day. Kerouac used to live in that building, but he was dead by then. No zippers or buttons, just strips of fabric to tie on either side of the waist.

HOMEROOM
By Melissa Ballard

Mr. Roan looked up at me, back at my grades, and sighed. “Read some books over the summer,” he said. “Start with these.” He scribbled the titles of seven books on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. I clutched the list behind my report card as I returned to my seat. I would not be sharing this with anyone.

THE WATCH
By Lisa Groen Braner

I stared at its gold face, the still smooth sweeping second hand circling the dial. Loathe to lose her, and clasping the timepiece, I felt guilty. For my health. For my age. For wondering if, thirty years ago, I somehow willed the watch into my possession.

NEW BOOK REVIEWS

On our Book Review page, Michelle Wittle reviews Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity, Kelly Ferguson reviews Quotidiana: Essays, Patty Wetli reviews Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession, and J. Luise reviews Anne Frank: the Book, the Life, the Afterlife