CITY GIRL

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

READING MATTER

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

MASKED MAN

by Jesse Pesta

CONDENSED LIFE HISTORIES

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

WAIT

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

APOSTOLOS THE LANDLORD

by Abigail Pesta

Another day, another charming letter from my landlord.

"I noticed that you have flowerpots on the windowsills -- make sure you don't leave rings of dirt behind," this one read.

The little notes were arriving with increased frequency, ever since I told him I'd need to break the lease. I had a good enough reason: I was being transferred to Hong Kong by my employer; my time in London was up. To soften the blow, I'd even found him a brand-new tenant for the apartment, so he wouldn't lose a single cent of rent.

Still, he couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. He thought I was getting away with something.

WHAT WOULD BUDDHA DO

by Abigail Pesta

Can there be a more enlightened way to start the new year than by going to a Buddhist brunch?

My friend Cecile invited me to one on New Year's Day, and I said yes right away. It sounded like the perfect chance to regain some dignity after a night of drinking, lunacy and self-reproach. Plus there would be finger food.

I didn't know what exactly to expect at Cecile's party. But one thing's for sure: A Buddhist brunch raises the stakes on the hostess gift. Lots of opportunities for bad karma.

THE MYSTERY OF THE HAT

by Abigail Pesta

I met Emma at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Houston, and we sat for a few minutes on a bench outside the deserted basketball court. It felt like the coldest day of the year. The black city sludge in the gutter was frozen rock solid. Overhead, the branches of a tree -- hopelessly tangled with plastic bags -- were whipped by the bitter wind.

But none of this mattered to Emma, because she was in love and wanted to spend the afternoon telling me about it.

She looked radiant and pixie-like, wearing a striped knit cap with a fuzzy ball swinging on the end of a piece of yarn. "I am so in love!" she declared.

I, on the other hand, had spent the morning composing angry mental letters to an old boyfriend. Perhaps it made me a less-than-ideal sounding board for Emma. But here we were.

WARPLANE

by Jesse Pesta

NEGOTIATING WITH A CAT

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

SKYSCRAPER

by Jesse Pesta

MOVING DAY

by Abigail and Jesse Pesta

In the kitchen, Dad's sitting on the linoleum floor, cussing at a vacuum cleaner. The piece that's supposed to connect the top to the bottom doesn't quite fit. It's August and the apartment is boiling hot.

With sweat pouring down his neck, Dad looks up at a pigeon on the windowsill. The bird is watching him with its creepy pink eye. "God, give me a break," Dad says for the fifth or sixth time. "Please, just one break."

He's so mad at the vacuum cleaner, he's hissing his words. "Just one single break. Is that so much to ask, God?" he implores. The pigeon blinks.