Strangers. We were taught not to talk to them, perhaps a request made with the best of intentions. But, so often, there’s much more to those we don’t know. That’s the reasoning behind this year’s theme issue.
The Pushcart Prize, as you may know, is one of the most coveted honors in literary publishing. And it all starts with a story, submitted to a magazine like ours.
You write out of Montana now—with July’s still-snowy mountains. You are led up and down a scrambled map, open prairie, the bluest lakes, the sharpest peaks…
…your dad put on a Bossa nova record and the other dads clustered by the stereo, talking about vacations, real estate, cars, baseball, their icy old-fashioneds jingling like tambourines.
Alie breezes in with her big warm smile, scans my barcode—to make sure I’m the right person, or maybe to see if I’m on sale—then carefully lifts up my sheet and peers down at my penis.
My hair stylist brushed chemicals onto my hair. The clientless stylist in the booth beside us talked about how she’d recently—finally—lost the weight she gained after getting off Adderall.
One month after I turn 14, the third prime minister to govern the world’s largest democracy, Indira Gandhi, is assassinated in New Delhi.
My grandma and I are in her kitchen filling two baking sheets with rounds of cookie dough when I realize someday, in the not too distant future, she will be the oldest person on earth.
Meeting the puppy for the first time, my brother shook his head and looked at me like I’d made another bad decision.
I hope he won’t turn the car around. I hope I’m not making a mistake. I hope I don’t do anything to make him mad. I am eighteen. I will soon be married in Reno.
