by Michael WadeHis cramped right foot hurts. From holding the pedal way down where it’s never been before. He can’t let it up. He can’t let it up because if he does it means he believes this has happened.
by Mary K. HawleyFor more than twenty years the Langs and the Turners lived side by side in wood-frame Victorians separated by the Turners’ narrow driveway, each house a mirrored replica of the other with a wide front porch and bay windows.
by Danielle HolmesThe library’s Saturday morning storytime was cancelled due to poor attendance. The staff had tried everything to keep it afloat.
by Andrew HoganWorld Federation for Wrestling Slapdown Host Don Deleterious’s June 3, 2004 On-Air Interview with Francisco Grajilla, Professional Wrestling’s Hottest New Superstar.
by Meg RiveraHe opened the door at her first quiet knock. A smile split his face. He pulled her into his embrace, shutting the door with the toe of his boot.
by Cathy UlrichHer baby will be born fire; her baby will burn. She feels it, feverish during the pregnancy, exhaling smoke from her mouth.
by Gustavo BossertWhen a row of trees started to swish against the car, and denser foliage knocked against the bumper and number plate, she sensed that she had lost her way.
by Jeff BakkensenWe split her up by dropping names into a hat. I got both arms, Paul a leg, Ryan the head, Matt the other leg, and Drew the coveted torso.
by Don FosterWith little time before his kids start fisticuffing one another, before his wife dumps the weekend itinerary on him, Kirby rolls himself out of bed this Saturday to work on his spiritual overhaul.
by Alan SwyerWhen he first came to LA and had not yet established much of a social life, Shulman’s evenings, more often than not, were spent in pursuit of old movies.
by Bob BeachThe first dayshine spilled hurryish over Miz Pennypacker’s tarpaper roof and splashed the front yard like a stream of melty butter.
by Justin CarmickleYolanda had dragged Ian through eight states by the time he was thirteen. After Ian came out her fourth husband’s fists sent Ian fleeing. He’d gone up north to the gay father he’d never known.
by Laura Grace WeldonThe weary face behind her in the bathroom mirror startled Lia. Her mother usually slept in after a late shift at the bowling alley.
The thin edge of the paper slices the tip of my finger, but I continue so that blood paints a hole where an eye might have been.