All Stories, General Fiction

Cold by Yash Seyedbagheri

My older sister Nan and I climb up our makeshift tree house armed with our latest swiped goodies. Vienna sausages. Saltines. Sardines. Plastic Merlot bottles. The Sutter Home brand, not anything fancy, but durable. Plus, it’s enough to give you a good buzz, but not enough to get truly, raging drunk. Not like Mom.

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All Stories, General Fiction

It’s All I Can Do by Thomas Elson

Look closely. Near the walnut bookcase a friend built for my son. Can you see me? I visit here every day.  

A couple of weeks ago, I told my son it was time. There were no miracles cures for me – ninety-two years old – not really high on the list of miracle-cure candidates.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Artificial by Tabitha Pearson

I hatched the plan for my sperm heist with my accomplice, James. I really wanted a baby and I had the uterus for it. But the only artificial insemination center in Mississippi had a rule. I needed an infertile husband before they would do me the honor of selling me three minutes of another man’s time.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Renaissance by Yash Seyedbagheri

Spring breaks through my empty walls and drawn curtains, an impenetrable fortress. It spills onto cell phones where sisterly jokes about my old-school wardrobe and loving and laughing face emojis no longer wait. Sunlight taunts the charcoal-colored shadows that keep me company on empty couches that smell of musk, armpits, Malbecs, and sativas.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction, Writing

Graham by Hugh Cron – Warning – Adult Content And Very Strong Language.

“Hello baby, how are you? It’s lovely to know you’re there.

You do what mummy says, be a good girl. Now put mummy back on the phone. Thanks baby! I love you! You know that daddy loves you! Thanks baby!

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All Stories, General Fiction

Paper-Lined Tables by Rachel Sievers

“Will you bring me something to drink from the kitchen?” She asks with her feet up on the couch. I swivel from my perch looking out the kitchen window. The open floor plan of the three-bedroom, two-bathroom house makes it easy to see the bottoms of her feet from where they lay on top of the armrest of our couch. Her neon pink socks have white writing that read: if you can read this bring me wine. I consider her socks and reach into the walnut cabinet and pull out a water glass, filling it directly from the sink. I bring her the full glass and hold it out to her. She doesn’t look up from her phone but grabs the water glass and brings it to her pale and chapped lips. She needs to drink more water.

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