by Alec Osthoff
You call the drink a Tom Collins. It makes you more alert to the thin black arm hairs of the man you’re talking to. He’s a spoken word poet—Shelly introduced you, and you haven’t had sex since last spring semester.
When the synagogue told me / we’d be going to the duck pond to / cast away our sins / I thought, that’s not fair to the ducks.
by Jennifer Pruiett-Selby
I’m not comfortable telling you how much I weigh. I’m not even okay with being weighed at the doctor’s office. In fact, I’ll avoid going to the doctor altogether, if it means I won’t have to step onto the scale and brace myself.
by Alan Swyer
Years ago, when I was still relatively new to Los Angeles, I was walking to lunch one day with someone who would become a mentor when a distinguished-looking older man gasped. “Rod Amateau! Fuck you!”
by Michael Wade
His 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 Dr. Donna Roberts
Think back. Have you ever celebrated a success, but had a nagging feeling that others were less than happy for you?
by Mary K. Hawley
For 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 Holmes
The library’s Saturday morning storytime was cancelled due to poor attendance. The staff had tried everything to keep it afloat.
That time after the Golden Hour / when the sky glows one slow chalk streak, / the horizon like flesh / pressed to a lightbulb, / I said, come with me.
by Dr. Donna Roberts
The teacher accused me of being a “helicopter parent.” When I arrived home that night, stunned from her accusation, my husband just laughed and said, “Yeah, you are.”
by Andrew Hogan
World Federation for Wrestling Slapdown
Host Don Deleterious’s June 3, 2004 On-Air Interview with Francisco Grajilla, Professional Wrestling’s Hottest New Superstar.
I don’t even know how you got published. / Of all writers in the world, you’re the worst.
by Ken Massicotte
I wasn’t frightened by damnation, preferred / Merry Company in a Pergola,
/ Jan Steen’s tavern maid with the cider pot
by Meg Rivera
He 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 Ulrich
Her baby will be born fire; her baby will burn. She feels it, feverish during the pregnancy, exhaling smoke from her mouth.