By Katherine Quevedo

Rabbit Chief drums a warning with hands, not feet this time. The ceremonial drum, zigzags of golden cord fraying at the tightest points. His fur stands on end. Mine too. I squeeze my eyes shut but see only disheveled fur and cord, hear only pounding drum and pulse.

Hunting season.


doctor time

By Joel Fishbane

“Time travel is easy in Africa. You’re already in a bubble. Wherever you go, it feels like you’re in the past. When I first arrived, the foundation I worked for assigned me to a hospital whose assortment of beds and equipment hailed from every decade except the one we were actually in. I spent my days doing harsh and thankless work. I think I became a fine doctor, but at some point I lost my name. Everyone called me exactly what Nia had called me the first day we met: Young Doctor. Of course I encouraged it. This was time travel too.”



By Karen-Luz Sison

“You came to Manila by yourself to sing. And whether it’s for an audience of ten ogling men in the square or thousands of people in Araneta Coliseum, you’re determined that singing is the only way you want to support yourself.”


You Will Leave

By Adrienne Clarke

“He began to talk, fast, as if he sensed, rightly, that his was a limited engagement; one that she might choose to end at any time. He told her he wanted her to go to Elena’s wedding with him. It would mean so much. That if she agreed to this one thing he wouldn’t bother her anymore. He’d stop asking her to give him another chance. He said he knows he doesn’t deserve it, but would she please go to Elena’s wedding with him?”


The Hellion

By James Edward O’Brien

“Cradock drank in the charred opalescence of the creatures’ shells; their disapproving mouth lines; their bulbous amber eyes socketed behind heavy, wrinkled lids; their broad, scaly flippers almost wing-like.

‘Miraculous,’ he marveled.”


The Mercy of a Drumcliff

By Edd B. Jennings

“Argyll feared little of flesh and blood, not from confidence derived from a proven toughness, but because he had seen so much death in his short life that he couldn’t bring himself to view his own death as anything out of sequence or time.”


The Rod of Asclepius

By Jacob Appel

“A first pulse of memory:  My father, broad-shouldered and dashing, sliding his arms into a long white coat that smells of bleach.  It is springtime in St. Arnac, a balmy Sunday afternoon snowing crab-apple petals.  We’ve parked in the physicians-only lot atop the roof of the hospital’s garage, the same hospital where, the previous Thanksgiving, my pregnant mother died of a ruptured uterus.”

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