The husband and wife are picking at each other again. My fellow gorilla trekkers. I dub them the Bickers. They stand close to me on an eighteen-inch jungle path like a couple of thistles I have picked up in the brush. “You were supposed to bring the extra battery. You screwed up.” Mr. Bicker says.…

They sailed into Sullivan Bay on the morning’s dying wind. Julie was on bow watch with the sails spread wing-on-wing behind her when she caught sight of the red roofed buildings and the fat white boats. After weeks of forest, fjord, and waterfall, the quaint marina looked three shades of wrong, more like a fake…

STRETCH, OPEN UP, STRETCH “Twist, twist further. Back straight. Do you feel the deep stretch in your hip?” Kamini could feel it, releasing, opening, stretching. At the end of the class, she let go, floated. “Come out of it slowly. Feel the changes, experience the emotions.” She wondered whether the supine forms beside her had…

First — thank you for writing Float. It is all of these things: joyful and troubling, hilarious and somber, evocative and introspective. Where did the inspiration for Float come from and how did you pull this multi-layered and hilarious novel together? What can you tell me about the evolution of Float? Stefanie, thank you for…

Sergeant Scrubs’ battalion No. 363 was getting the shit kicked out of them, but no one could hear him squawk for help over at Geriatric Base Southeast Quadrant. The hearing aids belonging to all Command Central personnel automatically shut off whenever the mainframe went down — which it always did when the temperature rose to…

She’s spent two hours in Room 3 of the Ojibway Motor Inn every Tuesday afternoon for forty-two weeks, to get away from her husband’s sick-bed. Week after week she rushes past the bear, wolf and loon on the totem pole, past the disapproval of the spirits, their deliberations about restoration of order. Sandals kicked off…

The path between the village and baobab tree follows the contour of land and nothing shades it. The drought has claimed every leaf and every animal. Mbuya rises from her sleeping mat as night shrugs an opening for daybreak. She rewraps her cloth and makes no sound as she moves toward the path to the…

Poem: “Lost,” by David Wagoner from Collected Poems 1956-1976 © Indiana University Press. Lost Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It…

ARCHAEOLOGICAL FIELD REPORT by Karl Frederick Expedition: Terra B Outpost: 1 Site: Lat. N39d:44m:33s; Long. W104d:57m:13s Artifact ID/Date:* EX-TB-1 / 03 21 14,075 CE Desc Code: Art Location: Limestone cave complex of apparent religious significance. To the side of a large meeting area, a sleeping alcove carved out of cave wall, one meter above the…

The prompt: Whose forest is this? _________________________________________________ + NO TREES By Pam Bolton She was gone that day. November 7th. Down to be with the grandkids. So it was just he and the tree guy and the tree guy’s ex-wife’s stepson. They’d decided it would be okay. She and he had decided. She thought. Later,…

At the next house, you drink an entire half-gallon of milk straight out of the carton, then immediately throw up all over the moonlit kitchen tiles. I can’t help laughing. “What were you thinking?” I say, rubbing your shoulders. You wipe your mouth with your hand. “I was thirsty. Let’s see what’s upstairs.” We roll…

She climbs the hill in the snowstorm, wearing swimming goggles. At the top, she looks out at the bare birches, the grey sky, the swirl of flakes. At the bottom awaits a tree, a pond, a thicket of thorns. She holds the trashcan lid with oven mitts. A towel for a scarf. The whole way…