by Samantha Memi15-year-old Mary, pregnant by the spirit of God, wearily makes her way through the streets of Bethlehem with her 160-year-old husband, Joseph. “Oh Joe,” she pleads, “I can’t go on. I’m fair done in.”
by Tom MahonyThe red light felt endless. I flipped through the radio dial—sick of the same old stuff—and paused at a soft hits station. It blared some power ballad from the 80’s.
by Anne AnthonyMichael stretches through the doorway, no apology on his face. He reeks of bourbon, cigarettes, and wet dog. He’s kept his hair long the way his Mama liked it.
by Nicolas PoynterThen the glasses started rattling around. Everyone must have noticed because we were all looking at one another. Milton spread his arms out and grabbed the bar as if somebody was trying to drag him off against his will.
by Mark JenkinsI won’t lie, the first time I laid eyes on Freddie, squirming his way into the D-mark pit at the Merc, I hated him, even more than most new locals.
by Les BohemAlan Krieger had aura of success around him like a luminescent cloud. Slowly that cloud began to darken, and today he was fired.
by James MulhernJust as we were about to step onto the icy sidewalk, Nonna nudged my arm away and opened the door of Revere Savings Bank. She slipped and her wig flew into a snowbank.
by Hamdy ElgammalThe boy and the girl sat on the edge of the highway, their backs against a wall fifty miles out of Sacramento.
by Andrew DavieSixth and Seventh grade English; we were reading a book, a young adult mystery which included time travel as a major component.
by Ron Gibson, Jr.I swung the door open, turned on the light and marveled at the murky lake that now lived in our house. It must have been five foot deep.
by Jackleen Holton HookwayThe temperature in the Central Valley had dropped to a record low. I scraped the frost off the windshield before I drove myself to the hospital.
by Jay MerillOne chilly Saturday Den goes with her mother to the Botanical Gardens. Den wants to walk in the part with the wizened tree trunks, where the grass sprouts up in clumps. Where the earth is more like grit.
by Michael ChitwoodHe cradles the chicken with his right arm, holding it nested against his mid-section. He takes a booth and puts the chicken beside him on the bench seat.
by Antoine BargelI had just softly laid my finger on the trigger. I was about to begin the long inhalation that would, a moment later, allow me to shoot without shaking.