by Peter CowlamMinions in a free press, let loose with a vision, wash tides of stucco from their blades as work ends on a coastal tower.
by Amye ArcherIt is dark. The summer is ending, but we can still taste her on our tongues. Twenty beers between us has made you hungry for me.
by Peter J. StavrosIt’s that thing that wakes you at three in the morning, with a gasp and a startle.
by T.E. CowellOnce you start making shopping lists it all goes downhill from there.
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 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 Nina KotyantzMorris Brandson in his beige raincoat—the one he inherited from Arthur Miller’s Willy—trots along the damp grounds of his forsaken city, fighting the ruthless blows of the raindrops in the wind.
Leesa’s stories invite the reader to the table, pour them a couple fingers of something good, and leave them reeling.
by Jane-Rebecca CannarellaI try to pierce apple flesh with my incisors but always avoid using my tree stump molars.
by Levi Andrew NoeThe clouds stand poised above us like sumo wrestlers in leotards, bursting at the seams. I chuckle to myself and you ask why, but I can’t just say, “Because leotard is a funny word.”
by Audra Kerr BrownYou come home from work and find a package on your doorstep. It’s from your mother; you recognize her writing on the return address—slanting cursive like trees bowing in the wind.
by Brian BurmeisterWe had just sat down for lunch when James got waved over to another table. His girlfriend broke up with him over the weekend, and he was going over there to talk to her.
by Dianne Poston OwensIt’s a Monday. I’m parked in the shade of an oak tree, listening to Raeford. All is quiet after the bells.