By E. M. Francisco “Over the Beyond” placed fourth in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2020 Fall Fiction Contest. Florence’s plane is bright. It streaks through the sky like a shooting star, a cigarette carelessly tossed aside. Her breaths are heavy as she fights with the stick. Clouds whip past her…
By Steven Christopher McKnight “Fare Thee Well, Basket Face” placed fifth in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2020 Fall Fiction Contest. You see a guy at a coffee shop. He’s simple-looking. Nice hair. Good build. Impeccable forearms. His face is featureless, save for the fact that it’s made of interwoven wicker….
By Nancy Baker It was after the washing of the dinner pots and dishes, the reading of today’s paper, the tucking in bed of the younger ones. It was after I heard him say as he walked out the back door, “I’ll see you later,” and I responded, “Good luck…
By Jason Arehart Despite Samuel’s best efforts, the garden was under attack. That much was clear. He bent down and examined the plants for any uneaten fruit. All that was left were the small, hard green growths that would eventually become tomatoes. This was not the start he had wanted….
By Michael Silverman The morning train was relatively empty. In my car, the only passengers were a dozen black women and me. The train was heading north, and we were going to work. It was our common denominator. In the mid-1970s, I was a reverse commuter. I lived in New…
By Jim De Marse I walked in the back door and smelled pot roast in the oven with gravy, peas, butter, and rolls on the side. Mom was making the gravy in a saucepan. I said hi, took off my jacket, and hung it on one of the hooks above…
By David James Driving through North Hollywood, a few months shy of a legal beer, a glance in the rearview mirror suggested a mop of hair more ragged than normal. As thoughts of a haircut began to register, a storefront advertising unisex hairstyling appeared, and right in front of its…
By Alan Gartenhaus The thud sent me racing to look out windows closed tightly against frosty north winds. Abandoning my homework, I bolted into the evening’s dark without stopping for a coat. Tire tracks in a fresh dusting of snow led to a car smashed against an oak tree on…
By Jenn Bouchard I hadn’t thought about my ex-girlfriend in years. Now Clara – or Cee, as I called her – was sitting across from me at Cannonball, my restaurant in the River North neighborhood of Chicago. She was there because I had totally messed up her life about two…
by J D Francis Woodrow Franklin sat resting, slowly pushing back and forth on an old, wooden bench swing that hung from a rusty chain on the front porch of the tiny cottage. It is where he has lived for thirty-seven years, alone. The bench squeaked and moaned with every…