When the poor shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat their children.
Or starve, was the unadded addendum. Many had chosen to starve. Many had not.
Continue reading “When the Poor Have Nothing More by Sparrow Grace”
On that day, as on most days, the 8:22 was right on time. Book in hand, I boarded a nearly empty car and secured a seat facing west, so as to avoid the blistering fire of a Colorado sunrise. The city burned amber and rose as the doors dinged closed and the train lurched forward. I gazed out the window as we glided out of downtown, past campus, and under 6th Avenue. At Broadway we met I-25, which we would parallel for the remainder of the journey south.
Continue reading “Missed Connections by J.D. Strunk”
The L train had stopped at the Lorimer Street Station on its way from Manhattan back to Brooklyn when the young man sensed a sudden excitement in the car. He raised his eye from the book he was reading as a full-size stand-up bass sailed past. In moments, a trio of Mexican musicians had set up in the middle of the car.
He nudged his girlfriend “Look,” he said.
Continue reading “Ta Da Dum Bing – a story by Michael Henson”
Mussolini loved his monkey. Historians may argue over the details of this strange relationship, but the existence of the creature, and the very real bond between man and monkey, cannot be denied.
Continue reading “Mussolini’s Monkey by Marco Etheridge”
The fog was descending, creeping in from the mountains and cloaking the lake in a heavy mist. Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, Birgitte looked up to the darkening sky and smiled. “We should probably be heading in soon,” she said, though her voice held no hint of actually believing it. “It will be night before we know it, and there’s sure to be some talk or trouble if we’re too late.”
Continue reading “Flesh and Feathers by L.S. Engler”
Poisson Regression by JJ de Melo
Sweat sticks me to the couch. Like a bug in fly tape. The windows are open, but I only have one fan. It barely helps. I’m breathing hot soup in my apartment and I want out. To leave. Take a walk. But it’s not safe. Not yet.
Continue reading “Poisson regression by JJ de Melo”
I peel off the paint bottle’s seal, and a strong chemical smell wafts off the top. The scent reminds me of the hospital’s ICU corridors and the ache that filled my chest when my mother and I entered Room 520A to see Nana a few days before. I swirl around different colored paints and recreate the fiery orange sunset and the same brilliant blue sky from last year when Nana and I walked along the shore during our annual beach trip after Easter Sunday Mass. My little brother plunges without thought into his palette and haphazardly washes his brush against his egg’s shell. His designs turn out formless, and his colors mix into drab shades of brown and gray. He eyes my egg and then looks down at his, and his cheeks flush. His eyes flash in warning as his idea is hatched in seconds. Still, I don’t move fast enough and watch in horror as he smashes the Easter Egg I painted for Nana to the floor, sending pieces of memory flying through the air; these things are fragile.
Continue reading “Nana Won’t Rise Up from the Dead by Margo Griffin”
Patsy flipped his eggs in the small frying pan, sizzling on the coils of his portable electric burner. Thin bacon smoke hung in his room. Can’t let that old bat of a landlady catch me cooking. He walked five steps to the room’s sole window, pounded the frame to break the ice seal, and opened it. Rochester’s mid-winter night air hit him like an arctic blast.
Continue reading “Patsy’s Last Gig by JD Clapp”
It was, by all means, a wonderful and perfectly lovely Tuesday. The sun was shining, the flowers were in bloom, and Edmund was running out of time.
Continue reading “Carrot Season by Alex Maciockay”
Her name was Winona. Winona on damp, drizzly school days when she raised her hand fearless of appearing callous or insufferable. Winnie on wine-dark nights she downed canned gin cocktails and let her nose go runny under porch lights. Nona inside her honey-sulked home where windows overlooked fields of magnolias whose petals sunk under the weight of thunderstorms.
But she was always Winona to me.
Continue reading “Always, Winona by Hannah Richardson”
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