All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Cherries by L’Erin Ogle

Frankie is his least favorite nursing aide. She wears cheap perfume that smells like cherries and he hates cherries, the knotted pits inside them, the red juice that blooms across fingers and teeth, the bittersweet taste spread across the tongue. His mother loved cherries, left bowls of them half eaten sitting on dressers and counters and even stacked on the floor, the pits stinking and rotting with bits of the fleshy fruit still attached. The stain on her fingertips resembling the lipstick smeared around her mouth.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Counting Leaves by Tim Frank

“I want you to go out into the street today, Lionel, and stand there, for maybe an hour or so, then come back and tell me what you’ve seen. I want you to be real descriptive, make it all come alive. Don’t let me down because I’m really getting fed up sitting here, not even able to see a leaf on a tree. You’ve got your problems, but you still have your sight so please treasure it and share it with me.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Hero of Sorts by Martyn Clayton

There’d be silence in the seconds before the explosion. Even the crash and roar, the shifting of the sand and silt above would momentarily cease. Then you’d sit there crouched in the dark wondering what had happened to your breath.  You’d count it in as somewhere ahead there’d be the movement of a body in scurrying retreat.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Carson by Caleb Harvey

I don’t really know Carson. I mean I know him, everybody knows him but he’s not my friend. It used to be that I wouldn’t be caught dead spending time with him. Now… I dunno, I wonder if he’d take me.
Carson is one of just three retarded kids at Robert F. Kennedy High School. The rest are too retarded for public school; they go to Strathmore Academy which is a “Special School” just up the street from where I live.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Chapter One: Sid by Wylie Strout

“Dog?  Cat?  Bus?  Worm?  Yes.  Melba, did you pick up the waste can?  No.  No, it was a dog on the corner?  I see.  What did the bus do?  Lose its license?  Why?  I thought it was a cat.  Okay.  No, you go ahead, I’ll stop by the hardware store.  Really.  The entire sidewalk is covered with them.  You walk out and you have to jump around like you have ants in your pants so you don’t squish them.  Okay.  See you then.”   Continue reading “Chapter One: Sid by Wylie Strout”

All Stories, General Fiction

Reflections Aft by Tom Sheehan


typewriterEight years locked in bed by an accident, his wife’s life an obscene penalty, Peirce Keating was left with only imagination. And little hope, though today might prove different. He loved his wife May, the sea, and bright company. Old pal Gary Mitman was this day’s gift, this day where hope might gain one foothold. That and viewing mirrors he controlled by head movements.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Tale of Trot and Dim Johnny by Tom Sheehan

typewriterAs all accidents are about to happen, or strange encounters take place, fate stands at the edge of the road waiting to announce itself, an unseen signpost, an unseen hitchhiker. Such was the plan when Banford J. Hibbs pushed his wheelchair out of the driveway and onto the sidewalk. Both his legs had been left on the rampant sands of a Pacific island half a century earlier. He did not see the boy with the white cane until he had almost knocked him down.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Michael and the Final Fix by Tom Sheehan


Michael the orderly, before it had all come down to the most private of acts, remembered his wondering if Marty and Valerie, in their lives beforehand, before the catastrophic crashes, before cement and machines and phone poles adjusted to flames around the piles of their motorcycles, he was a bull in bed, she was the puma come down to drink. Images loomed early on, lively, kicking images on how they must have cut a path to the heart of their appetites, their excitements, from what he heard up and down the entire east coast. Even pinned now to lives in rolling chairs, they evoked a fierce amount of energy, fire and brimstone, taste and distaste. Even then he thought the world of them, wanted to be god on the hill for them, Thor or Odin or a damned good magician with a damned good wand. Hell, he had the black skin; all he needed was the black hat with a few secret compartments.

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