It took seven minutes of her time, seven minutes of his time, and time was as precious as ever to them. He was on his way to a potluck breakfast (for which he hadn’t even bought his dish yet) and she was on her way to buy a new dress for her mother’s wedding before going to work. Neither of them had time for this but, luckily, it didn’t take much time. Everyone was in agreement about that.Continue reading “Sexed by Mark Saba”
Looking At Women by Yashar Seyedbagheri
My father, long-divorced, proclaims the joys of fucking women. Not making love. Not sexual intimacy, even. Fucking. He prowls dating sites, beady black eyes assessing thin-figured women with names like Irina, Tatiana, Sandra, Svetlana, Lara. Of course, they’re not only thin figured but voluptuous. He’s always kept abreast of that.Continue reading “Looking At Women by Yashar Seyedbagheri”
Endometrium by Katie Ellen Lamb
He is shaking. His skin is sticky and pale like the underside of a frog. I feel nothing. I move my hand, try pry it between us. I want to touch myself, but a cramp has started between my fingers and my wrist. I think this is a waste of time. Then, he goes deeper. Something inside me feels jagged. I see curves of red flesh behind my eyes. It’s a dull pain, a building pain and I think if I’d have just touched myself I’d have forgotten it. When he stabs me again, it bursts, wells up, floods over. I put my hands on his shoulders and I push.Continue reading “Endometrium by Katie Ellen Lamb”
This Woman in The Mirror by Wayne Yetman
They were still breathing in small gasps. Sandra rolled over and squeezed his arm, perhaps a little more firmly than would normally be necessary.
“I go running in the morning at 4:30.” she said, “You might like to take off then.”
Her young acquaintance, eyes fixed on the ceiling, sighed.
Coming Home by Louis Hunter
That’s new. I sit in front of the green, perched on the verge. Broken car pulled up behind me, half jacked, tyre removed but not replaced. Puncture. Should’ve bought that new spare. Little white balls float through the air like gulls, wobble in the breeze before landing on the trimmed grass. They pick up the flag, one hits and the other hits and the last hits. They put the flag back and move on. More balls sail across the sky, more flags are hoisted.
and you won’t tell him will you? she said
Mourning Becomes Her by Frederick K. Foote
The local bus huffs and heaves its way into Way Stop, West Virginia. It halts with a shudder and a sigh in the mid-morning sun.
I collect my duffle bag and straighten my fatigue uniform jacket. On Main Street, there’s an honest to goodness general store, a diner, Bob’s Gas Station, a few empty store fronts and two small white churches almost directly across the street from each other. The June morning is moving toward hot. I move toward the diner for coffee and directions.
Continue reading “Mourning Becomes Her by Frederick K. Foote”