MEG WOLITZER • SUMMER/FALL 2017
“Stay here, both of you,” my mother says after she and my father have planted us in a corner of Furniture World. “We’ll be back in an hour. Literally do not move.”
My father and mother are already starting to walk away into the enormous space. At 9 years old I understand very little about either furniture or the world; what I know, though, is that this place is a repository for the dullest objects anywhere.
OLABAJO DADA • SUMMER/FALL 2017
Every other Sunday, the army hosted a sold-out show at the Bar Beach. They ran flashy advertisements in the Daily Times a couple of days prior to the event, promising “a show like never before” while occasionally announcing a hike in the gate fee because of the surge in gas prices, or to offset the cost of new swings and slides they installed on the beach for “energetic Nigerian tots.”
BEVERLY TAN MURRAY • SUMMER/FALL 2017
If Danny bothered looking at maps, he’d tell you that Wynwood spanned a mere 16 city blocks, hemmed in by North 20th Street to the south, and I-95 to the north. From there on out it was a simple matter of rolling east toward South Beach with its glossy Teslas and Lamborghinis, the topless Brazilian models lolling on beach blankets, the little ass dogs in Gucci purses, and assorted corny whitefolk shit.
TIPHANIE YANIQUE • SUMMER/FALL 2017
When the detectives came it was almost midnight and it was cold. First they knocked on the window, but Stela and Fly were making love on the living room floor and could hear nothing but each other. When their apartment door rattled with the fist, Fly asked, “Who’s that?” but softly, into Stela’s ear so that the question could be their private thing. Part of the sensuality. He went to the door after tugging on his pajama pants. “Look through the peephole,” she called from behind the couch. Their hood was gentrified, sure, but this was still Harlem and she knew to be wary. That was her way; cloying or caring. Fly just opened the door.