Alas! We’re juggling editors right now. We’ve got to announce a leave of absence of unknown length… great apologies! We’ve contacted all our writers we’re capable of contacting, and we appreciate you fellow readers who’ve come aboard with us. We’ll let you know when we come back into it, which we’re hoping we will, and will be later this year. Thanks again! ALR Eds.
The day is so hot the sky itself might be melting when the girl and her father meet at the outdoor table of the tacky beachside restaurant three minutes off Greenwood Lake Turnpike. It’s a Tuesday, late in the evening but still a long way from sunset. She twists at the stem of the headless sunflower, the top of it left carelessly on the table beside the empty plastic vase. He fiddles with the corner of where the label meets on a bottle of Yuengling.
“So,” she says.
He waits. She adds nothing. The strap of her white sundress slides off her shoulder, and goes ignored.
“So,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
People are looking at us.
Seema’s face was at the window, ten year old eyes surveying the world, button nose squashed against the tinted glass.
They’re not looking at us, honey. They’re looking at the car.
News from the Mag! Extry extry!
“You two live in Nerdville,” Dad snapped. “Why doncha play baseball for real steada sitting at that table all day, rolling those goddamn dice?” He was referring to the World Baseball League, that marvelous horsehide fantasy game that I played with my kid brother, Robbie, throughout every summer day.
Dear diary, I’m a ten year old boy who probably won’t make it till eleven. I’ve got a sickness but I’m not sure what kind. All I know is that I’m not as smart as the other kids and I look different too. It’s sad so I won’t think about it now.
“The Thorazine should stop her visions”
You were razors and acid and vinegar.
You were midnight and broken glass and storms and leaky roofs and creaky gates and abandoned dark roads
and steel boots and chainsaws…
We’re trap queens Ace
of Spade champagne flutes
ballet spins through
While a few math geeks appreciated Joshua Calisto’s obsession with predictability, the general population thought he was just weird. A genius yes, but weird. Like most gifted mathematicians, he spent his life in obscurity, few ever seeing his work, fewer still understanding it.
Now, at last, Calisto’s moment had arrived.