by George DrewAbout ten thousand years ago, in the Mideast, a certain strain of wheat made agriculture possible by crossing with goat grass.
by Chris MilamHe told her they should slide into it, start with a tender elbow or two, maybe a playful throat punch, a measured build-up to the pain.
by R. E HengstermanThere’s a boy, and he does not speak. Dirty blonde and barefoot, he sits cross-legged in space. His arrival is unusual, but I have no fear. So in silence, I wait.
by Antoine BargelHad a liaison with Mr. Basilewski, residing at 59, Saint Peter Street, who had been involved with Mrs. Ferrari, to whom he had left a considerable sum.
by Jill JepsonShe was cool as ice cream, and twice as smooth. She’d done this a thousand times. Me, a couple hundred.
by Thomas ElsonTwo days after Walter T. Andrews received his prognosis, he sat with his second wife, Shirley, and detailed for the first time both his lymphatic cancer and the extent of his estate.
by DC DiamondopolousArmy Private First Class Samantha Cummings stood at attention holding a stack of boxes, her unwashed black hair slicked back in a ponytail and knotted military style.
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.