Blog

Andrew Morgan ~ Services

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I am not the dancer with her left foot some­how wedged against the rail. Not the dancer then or eigh­teen min­utes prior as she dashed cry­ing from a build­ing very much alone and mind­less and with­out direc­tion. I’m not her nor sur­prised as she stum­bles into her wedged posi­tion on the rail. 

John Holman ~ Vacation

I got to Dexter’s house about 6:00 on a warm Saturday October evening. His wife Olivia opened the door wear­ing red Capri pants that looked new, and a white T-shirt and red san­dals.  She looked like sum­mer and Christmas at the same time, but as I said, it was fall.  She car­ried two shop­ping bags and clutched her keys in the hand that held her red purse.  I couldn’t tell if she was com­ing or going. 

Mel Bosworth ~ Days Not His

I stood in the park­ing lot of Rudy’s Oil. I hadn’t been to Five Streams since I was a kid. The sky was thin and gray and the air smelled like ice which to me smelled like win­ter. Across the street was a ratty white walled con­ve­nience store called Kings. Tacked to the white wall clos­est to the sleepy four-way inter­sec­tion was a hand painted sign that read “Free Coffee While You Play Lottery.” 

Girija Tropp ~ 3 Fictions

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HANGNAIL

My ex came for three weeks and his leav­ing is over­due so I am going to move but I plan to look out for him and maybe keep my name on this lease if our boys can­not find a ground floor with lots of light and walker acces­si­ble. His folks do hos­pi­tal vis­its, and call, and he is grate­ful for that but they do not have space for much else. 

Glen Pourciau ~ Table

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We’d planned to have din­ner with the Hardaways at a restau­rant we’d never been to, a pop­u­lar new fish place.  They had been there a num­ber of times already, enough to be con­sid­ered reg­u­lars and to know which table to ask for, so they made the reser­va­tion for four at 6:30. 

David Ryan ~ Barcarole

You worry about the eye, the micro­phone in it that gath­ers and trans­mits daugh­ter sounds. Her infant coos, […]

Jessica Alexander ~ The Bear at the Door

When the bell rings and the bear pulls Henry through the door and off the stoop, I know it is not me that has been taken because Henry and I don’t have that kind of rela­tion­ship. That’s not to say I don’t love Henry ten­derly, though I wouldn’t call it rap­ture exactly. I do things dif­fer­ently so he won’t leave. I select, for instance, genial shades of lip­stick, blouses with mol­li­fy­ing designs, slacks that say, “My husband’s at the ball game.” 

Kerri Quinn ~ Rico

I leave a note for my hus­band, Robert, on the kitchen counter next to the lat­est issue of his sub­scrip­tion to Popular Mechanics. The note says I know he’s been sleep­ing with my best friend, Michelle, and by the way, she’s also sleep­ing with Mark who lives two doors down. I also write that I’m tak­ing the espresso machine I gave him for his birth­day. It was really a gift for me. And p.s.: The Mustang we bought with our sav­ings, it wasn’t stolen. I took it. 

Merran Jones ~ Curls

Great hair!” “Thanks.” The stan­dard exchange between Carla and any health shop girl. Girls with names like Jasmine […]

Aaron Brand ~ Three Poems

Bus Poem 4   Just out of Cheyenne, a Greyhound keeps pace with a VW Bug, yel­low, this girl’s suit­case down below, […]

Gail Louise Siegel ~ Betrayed

The harp sits in the cor­ner gath­er­ing dust, ever since Petra’s dog Maisy got spooked by rustling in […]