When Drea’s mother called to ask if she could take her to see Jerry, Drea clenched her fists without realizing it and dropped the phone.
“What happened?” Drea’s mother asked.
“Nothing,” Drea said loudly as she squatted to pick up the phone. She sat down hard on the floor and tried to breathe slowly, in for four and out for six, as her therapist had suggested she do when triggered.
Continue reading “Seeing Jerry by Susan R. Weinstein”
“Five in a row.” Kenny Langston sits on the front porch with his wife. “A couple were even threes.” The couple continue watching as their 10-year-old daughter, Alex, banks one in off the goal Kenny mounted to the garage.
Continue reading “Deadheads by David Henson”
Neither Mr. Dunner nor I knew which now-gone relative carefully placed the photographs in the chimneys. Had it not been for Mr. Dunner’s care, we wouldn’t have known the photographs existed. All that I know for sure is that Old Da, my grandmother, took up each newly discovered photograph and studied the emergence of her former self (portrayed in various instants), but there was more to it than that. I’ve come to believe that all the while she was either healing or dying, and I expect we were both waiting for some coda of presentiment.
Let’s go back to the beginning:
Continue reading “Most of the Things He Remembered Took Place Long Before He was Born * by J Bradley Minnick”
I was barely thirteen when my big brother Jimmy came home from school with a wailing guitar. We were two kids caught up in an ongoing dispute between our parents over things we could not really understand, and we feared they were going to split up and we would become casualties of a broken home. As a byproduct of this trauma the two of us had bonded over a budding and mutual love of rock music. Somehow our mutual interest in rock guitar music had given us something to hang onto as our parents became more and more involved in petty bickering and outright bursts of anger.
Continue reading “Wailing Guitar by Steve Sibra “
The night before, my sister sobbed a waterfall into the sleeve of my silk pajamas. My own eyes are bone dry like the wooden roof we lay under. Rain hasn’t come in weeks and the tomato plants outside are decaying like autumn leaves crumbling to dust underfoot. The market was shut down weeks ago by Japanese men with eyes painted with malice.
Continue reading “A Sister’s Promise by Grace Lee”
An agitated, grey man is staring, confused at a post box. His pet spaniel is stubbornly pulling at its lead, trying to continue its walk, but is being firmly ignored.
Continue reading “Listen to Elliott Smith by Joel Bryant”
Dad always told me there was an incinerator back here behind the gas station. Just didn’t think I’d ever see it for myself. And I especially didn’t think I’d see Mom’s stuff burning inside it. But life comes at you fast. Very fast. You have to keep up. Keep up or you’ll die.
Continue reading “The Incinerator and the Sinkhole by Christopher Miller”
That’s how my mum still says it. Her phrase for anything that’s either actually funny, just unusual, quite mundane, or even a slight bit different from how something might be otherwise. Every time I go back home to see her, and then my dad, I can pretty much guarantee she’ll say ‘it’s a little bit funny’ in regard to something or other, as she has done for years.
Continue reading “It’s a Little Bit Funny by Paul Kimm”
Why would life be so unfair to me? What have I done to deserve all this pain and, hardship? Sometimes I sit alone, lost in the quiet hum of the night, questioning every breath I take, every step I make. I search my heart for answers that never come, and the silence feels heavier than words.
What sin did I commit to be born into such deprivation?
“Everyone is going to stare. Don’t make eye contact or speak to anyone. They’ll ask for money.”
“What about family?”
They’re even worse. Just look mean.”
Continue reading “The Two Ringed Hotplate by Michael Shawyer”
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