by Lynn Benoit This short story is an excerpt from Benoit’s novel, “Poppy Write.” Chapter 1 My parents, Charles and Irma Longstocking named their only child Poppy. Surely, they meant well. Assuming that nobody wanted to be one of three Lindas or Susans in their class at school, they gave…
by V.A. Turner “Oh, my head,” Darena’th groaned as he opened his bloodshot sapphire blue eyes a bit, daylight spilling into his sleeping area from the open arched stone window frames and stabbing his brain like an icepick. He slowly lifted his broad alabaster white head on its long, thick…
by John Grey This is the first fridge, the first stove,that we took equal responsibility for. And this is the cutting boardwhere I sliced my finger dicing onions..That is the sink.The hot tap still provideslukewarm water.The cold tap is as advertised. And look.There’s the dusty bay windowand the hole through…
by Marah McCarty (This story contains themes of miscarriage.) Blood stains are on her fingers. Suppressing feelings, she moves methodically. Flush, turn on sink, scrub her hands clean. She is now only a series of dreams. She is no longer supposed to be observant to her heartbeat or the pull…
by Camille Hatcher My life is a book. The Book writes itself. And real people, strangers and familiars, consult it daily. Some, to follow a trend set by best-selling book lists; others, to obtain unfiltered gossip about people they know. All attempt to uncover a thirteen-year-long mystery: its author. Idiots….
by Rob Armstrong Let’s begin by finding a comfortable seated position. The world will tear itself apart within a hundred years. You know how it botched things with COVID-19. We bickered about wearing masks or not wearing masks. Shooting up vaccine or not shooting up vaccine. A Chinese lab made…
by John Grey I walked through my sister’s bedroomto get to my own,sniffed out the dregs of their perfumes. A whiff of imitation Parislit up the depths of my nostrils,and traces of powder tickled my throat. I was twelve years oldand there were no man smells in the house. No…
by E.P. Lande “Aaron, who’s Madonna?” my mother asked. At ninety-five, her last recollections of pop culture had probably been Bing Crosby or Kate Smith. “She’s a current pop icon, Mom.” In reality, I didn’t know that much about Madonna either. Madonna had scheduled two concerts in Montreal. To Steve,…
by Kevin Jones Mia always thought that maybe, just maybe, if she held her breath long enough the world would fade away just for a second. She thought that the quiet wouldn’t feel so quiet anymore as if it followed her and the ringing in her ears would subside to…
by Joan Mazza Past tax day, end of April, below freezingthis morning, iced water for the strays,a good day for a fire in the wood stove,started with old newspapers. A headlinefrom 2018 says, Philip Roth is Still Here.No. He isn’t. A day to burn more paper—heat from receipts, bills paid…