by Bill Carr Mike and Ellie decide that it’s easier to host two families at their house for Thanksgiving rather than shlep the grandkids all the way to the East Coast. Mike is my youngest son. Ellie is my daughter-in-law. The grandkids are cute but rambunctious. It makes little sense…
by Marty Carlock The Audi is beetle-black and shiny as a dancing slipper. Under her hand the door latch opens with a heavy snick. She slides into the passenger seat, knowing the danger. The door closes with that weighty authoritative sound automotive designers have determined indicates quality. The leather is…
by Todd Easton Mills Recidivists! And I’m one of them— Killer-diller in my two-tone stompers. Hi-de-ho! We’re cooking with gas. It was a smoggy morning in August, already 120 degrees. In the quad below office workers were taking their 8:45 break. Hanley adjusted the binocular feature on his eyeglasses, which…
by M. H. Burkett Arthur Roget Theodin the elder stared levelly at Arthur Robespierre Theodin the younger. Rog showed his age, hair thinned and gray, combed severely back in a widow’s peak, the lines in his face sagging with years. The smile sat flat, stretched between wrinkles. The eyes were…
by Liam Conor The ice slowly melted into the clear brown liquid. The chill rolled down the glass as he slowly turned it round and round in his hand, leaving a slight trail on the old dining table. The small square table rested in the dim light overhead. The forty…
by Stephanie Larochelle “No one who follows the rules has ever been found.” That was one of the first things drilled into their heads when they entered WITSEC. The next was “trust your instincts.” One bad feeling from a stranger making eye contact could mean more than an overactive imagination….
by Kayla Miller “Don’t remember me,” I said to each of them, “I surely won’t remember you.” But I lied. My life as a tumbleweed left no space, even in a deserted place, for people like them. They flowed together like waterfalls but their vessels never strayed from a permanent…
by Christine Holmstrom The smoke from the sergeant’s 25-cent cigar floated across the prison’s control room, a putrid cloud snaking around my head. It smelled worse than my cat’s dirty litter box. Swatting at the column of toxic air, I coughed into a strip of stiff gray state toilet paper…
by Robert Patrick Botchy People always ask me about my name. I’m gonna change it. When I was a kid, I loved it. Danny Duzzlemans. I sounded like I’d be anchoring the news. But now everybody says, “Duzzlemans? Like the cancer?” I’m not ashamed of my name per se, but…
by Morgan Shaver A man sits stolidly gazing out through the room’s singular window. Behind him fading stains intersperse white walls adorned with two gaudy floral paintings. Disinfectant permeates the air attempting to mask the scent of gradual decay. His doctor, authoritative and formal, makes the first punctual visit of…