by Dotty Weaver “The Dunes of Dawn” placed fifth in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2019 Fall Fiction Contest. Following the sun’s daily retreat to low western skies, the beach becomes a dark and ominous place. Purple shadows, then silky black curtains drift across the sand from the horizon, shrouding the…
by P. b. Simpson “Yes, Walter, I know the game is going to start at one, but you know how you get when you forget to take your pill.” Margaret Smallwood always had a problem trying to open the pill bottles. She would go as far as stabbing the top…
by John Bibb Hickman Don couldn’t tell you why he was so devoted to Tripp, his 1951 Morgan 3-Wheeler motorcar. He loved the classic design with its oiled English bridle-leather hood strap and those spoked, widely spaced front wheels. Maybe what appealed to him most was the way it cornered…
by Clayton Heilman The interpretive dance, fueled by some inner desire — a state of lowered inhibitions, allowing this fluid-mechanical motion. The body weaves noiselessly in-between the contrast of dark and light. Spinning across shadows, strobing flesh through light beams. The room lacks power, save that which gushes from deep…
by Jerri Jerreat The two women sat down. Karin had changed from ripped jeans into a long skirt, then back to dark jeans with a funky red and pink tee. She’d found an old eyeliner stick and used it. Cautiously. Silly, she was being silly, she told herself. After all,…
by Leslie Chehade Rise misty dawning A full raspberry bush drops green cereal bowl. And noontime combusts Dampened petals, sprinkler prayssodden bandana Evenfall gloaming Awhile tomato pie bakes Gone the garden spade
by Ariella Neulander “Shall we take my Prius?” suggests my daughter. She thinks I don’t know why she’s asking, but I do. And I won’t have it. It’s bad enough that she’s decided to come with me to my doctor appointment; she’s not going to take over the driving too….
by Robert Steward Lisbon, Portugal 2003 “Um bilhete de volta para Cacém, se faz favor,” I said to the man in the railway station ticket office. “Cacém?” he asked, tapping away on his computer. He had a Benfica football badge on the lapel of his blue jacket. “Sim,” I replied. Next…
By: Adir E. Golan Maery MacTauthenach followed the fading footprints that stained the snow crimson. With each step the snow revealed a deeper, darker imprint. Bleeding. Maery padded faster. Whoever was injured had to be close, the dulled prints had changed from boots to narrow stretches of furrows. Crunching snow…
by M. Guendelsberger My brother Pete was the one to find it once that dry tape finally gave way and the photo drifted down to the black and white tile of my dead grandmother’s basement floor. We had been stacking the chairs on that table, flipping them upside down so…