BAP Quarterly

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Fiction

Sting like a Butterfly

by: George Held

I went to a poetry reading in the South Village. That’s just above Houston Street. South of Houston begins SoHo, which means south of Houston. That’s pronounced HOW-stun. The other day on the subway the conductor announced the next stop would be HEW-stun. I thought we might be in Texas, because the accent was Southwestern. more

 

Brooklyn

by: Dennis Vannatta

It was the evening of November the 25th, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.  All holidays were hard on Tom Carroll, and at the approach of the one he thought of especially in terms of family, he felt the need of a libation or two at O’Grady’s on 116th Street.  Back in the bad old days he’d hit the bars every night and stay out for all hours, but those days were, mercifully, behind him.  His trip to O’Grady’s was his first in a week, and even then he’d had only one beer and was back home by 8:30.  Still, his wife, Margaret, made him recite his “catechism,” as he thought of it.  more

 

BLISS STREET

by: Nicole Haroutunian

The realtors all thought we were husband and wife. Eric played along but I corrected them. “I’m not married,” I said.
            
Eric had a hundred reasons why we should get a place first, before he told Isabel he was going for good. I’d never met her, only seen her photograph once in Eric’s wallet. No matter how he described her, I imagined her frail and helpless. I imagined her imagining me, swooping in and stealing him like a witch on a broomstick. In her version, I’d get what I deserved in the end. I’d give up my cheap share, move into the new place and wait for him there forever, paying all the rent myself—a New York nightmare.  more




 
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