MK Fiction

Jonah absently flicked the spark wheel of the Bic lighter, spinning it with his fingernail without pushing down the valve to produce a flame. An arsonist’s version of a fidget spinner, even though he had one of those, too, in his side pocket. He preferred the cheap gas station Bic lighters. They were affordable, reliable, and if he needed to, he could keep the flame on constantly with a zip tie. His favorite color was yellow, but this one was purple. He never bought the same color two times in a row. The abandoned warehouse loomed over his head like a giant. He couldn’t wait to take it down. For nearly 20 minutes, he sat in an alley and listened, blocking out the roar of the distant highway, inescapable in the city, and focusing on any sound that could be made, or triggered, by a human: footsteps, an alarmed bird, car tires crunching on nearby pavement. Waited and waited, until he could hear his own heartbeat, then a little longer. Jonah knew the building was bereft of life. He had com...

 The Old Man knew all the answers; at least that’s how it seemed. So was it ironic or appropriate that his back was curved into a permanent question mark? The posture resulted from decades slouched over his workstation, a jeweler’s loop pressed to his eye, his bony fingers curved around tiny tweezers and miniscule screwdrivers, his face inches from the innards of an antique watch. Sasha watched him work from her own smaller station next to his. He was the master, she the apprentice, and she watched closely - or at least as closely as she could. The Old Man enjoyed a salami sandwich on rye with a thick slice of raw onion every day at lunch, and his breath was overpowering in the afternoons. Apprentice at a watch repair shop was never on Sasha’s bingo card. She grew up two blocks from the store, a remnant of the postwar years. In its heyday, the shop was one of dozens along the street, an automat on one side and a pharmacy on the other, and across the wide avenue from a toy store. Th...

Code switching , he remembered, in the middle of the night after that first day. That’s what it’s called . Ben had struggled to come up with the phrase, but when it finally came to him, he knew it was right: his husband, Ryann, had been code switching. They arrived at Ryann’s family home that afternoon, just in time for a late lunch. Ryann’s mother and stepdad, his two older brothers, and his baby sister were all there. It was the first time Ben had met any of them. They were not invited to the wedding. That was a whole thing on its own. The wedding was small and hastily planned. Ben’s parents lived in London and wouldn’t be able to make it. Through a series of tearful phone calls, all behind closed doors, Ryann explained to his mother that he didn’t want Ben to feel… Ben didn’t even know. He would have loved it if Ryann’s people had been there. That was eight months ago. The wounds had healed, Ryann said, and his family was excited to host them for a long weekend at the family home. N...

The sweet-sticky spray of champagne slashed across his forehead and dribbled in foamy trickles to the corners of his mouth. Eduardo Avila licked it away and felt the bile rise in his throat, the champagne acidic on his tongue. He forced a smile anyway, aware of the shoulder-mounted video cameras pointed in his direction, their expensive electronic components covered in thick plastic. Just then Avila's teammate, Devon Shields, walked up and wrapped him in a huge embrace. "You earned this, baby," Shields yelled into his ear. Avila could hear the tears in his friend's voice. "You earned this for all of us." Shields broke the hug, then reached down and hoisted Avila's arm into the air. He yawped, drawing the attention of everyone in the clubhouse, and started a chant that rattled the rafters: "MVP! MVP! MVP!" Avila looked up at his hand. He was grasping a heavy silver trophy, awarded minutes ago in an on-field ceremony. He forgot he was carrying it...