by Adeline Macdonald Clean steam iron the linen sheets, white and crisp and beautiful and without fault or fold White walls upon white walls with nothing to upset you or hurt you or make you cry or want to leave or want to think Do you love it? Is it…
by Burton Shulman Hannah was kneading his arm. It started hurting; Ike pulled it away. “What are you doing?” “Wondering how it would…taste.” Ike sat up. “Come again?” “Your arm.” He stared. “Are you hungry?” She turned away. “Hannah, this isn’t what usually passes for pillow talk. Maybe from here…
by Norman Klein Rita had been visiting her best friend, Jody, in New Hampshire, and two days into the visit Jody called Bill from the hospital. “When she arrived last night she didn’t look right, so I gave her some soup and put her to bed. But she was worse this morning,…
by Jeanne Althouse I was born in a hallway. My pregnant Mother had lovely brown hair curled in the style of Ingrid Bergman in the movie Casablanca. She defined her lips with dark red from a stick, her nose with loose white powder she stored in a gold case and…
by Mary Wroten “David’s Cookies” placed first in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2018 Fall Fiction Contest. David was a fastidious man. He wore starched white linen shirts with his crisply pressed khakis, creases running down the front of each leg. His snowy white beard was neatly trimmed and his steel…
by Darlene Holt It was April of ’86 when the blood moon murders began in Madison, Georgia. Before I met my wife, Charlene—hell, before I could even legally drink—back when life was simple. Or so I thought. My buddy, Chris Higgins, and I were taking some “easy A” elective on…
by RR Ewart It is a terrible thing To look at oneself in the mirror And not recognize the person Staring back at you. But that is what happened to me. I believed I would not change. I thought I would look the same and might not Even realize that…
by Ann Hosler Your mangled face was bared to the crisp January air. Teeth and hair and debris scattered across the snowy road. Thirteen may be unlucky, but those long years together built a sense of trust and familiarity. Loose chunks of pavement secreted beneath snow deceived us as your…
by Ann Hosler Water trailed down the window in rivulets, tracing the contours of my ghosted face. You wished me a happy birthday, nestled in sterile sheets of your hospital bed. Freshly woken from the coma of your surgery, you couldn’t remember my name. The surgeon removed a basketball-sized spleen…
by Michael H. Brownstein When I pass to the nether world, my dearest, watch for me in the rain. Do not go outside in gentle dress— I will be the acid from hammer fist clouds. When the weather changes, be sure to salt the walkway as you go. I will…
by Nancy Ford Dugan I was showing my driver’s license to my mother to prove I was her daughter when I looked out the window and saw two guys maneuvering a body with a plaid sheet over its face into an SUV. “Don’t be silly. You’re not Sally,” said my…