By Tim Brumbaugh Most people don’t believe me when I tell them that you can hear the snow fall. It’s true. It’s not one of those auditory hallucinations, when your mind convinces you that it heard something that isn’t really there. And it’s not something only I can hear. I’m…
By Michael Cabrera Even in the fall, it always felt like summer at my grandma’s house. Maybe it was just the weather of California, but it felt like her corner of the neighborhood radiated sunlight and warmth. From the shimmering of the concrete that led to the basketball hoop in…
By Hayden Pursley He checked his watch again. Then he thought of how he must look: sitting alone at a table for two, dressed and groomed nicely enough (he had tried very hard to not look like he was trying too hard), checking his watch then checking the entrance every…
By Douglas Goff I feel the need to explain the concept of chicken catching as it has become all too obvious that most people are not well versed in the methods of capturing our fine-feathered friends. Many people think that just because they are bird brains, they can’t hatch a…
By Mary Lanctot Though he’d only ever had the meal once in his life, the most memorable breakfast Rook had ever eaten was eggs done sunny-side up. He’d been four then, nearly a decade and a half ago, yet he still remembered his mother singing softly in a language he…
By Patricia Ljutic (This story contains suicide.) My friend Lila had an ever-present yearning to be somewhere other than where she was, as if emotional burrs lodged under her skin and began pricking her before she could settle anywhere. She spoke about changing where she lived, but had such a…
By Jim Speese Songs were in his head. Constantly. It was a problem and he supposed it wasn’t unique. Given the hegemonic presence of advertising jingles and TV show themes and music pumped into grocery stores and pharmacies and hospitals, it seemed quite likely that the fact that songs constantly…
By Maggie Kennedy “The orange tastes like a refrigerator,” my son says,spitting out his bite and pretending to gag,and though I have never tasted a refrigeratorI know what he means. The orange tastes like the plastic it was wrapped in.And though I have never eaten plastic,the conjured smell fills my…
By Ruby Peru When, at ages twelve and thirteen, Maureen and I were deposited for safekeeping on an Arizona horse ranch for the duration of the summer of 1980, it was very much as if we had both dropped from outer space, but from completely different spaceships. The ultimate tomboy,…
By Angelica Whitehorne My mini skirt, a metallic shield. My martini in hand,a weapon with its tiny spear. I glory cry to a last generation’shomage of song, remember the fallen, the now mothers withwreckage hips bound to their front porches. I don’t belong to anyone, least of all myself.I open…