By Francis J. Trautman
When I attempted to sneak back home near dawn, she was there on the porch in her orange wig, red nose, and white pancake makeup. She pointed at an invisible watch on her wrist and then drew the finger across her throat.
By Lucie Bernheim
Ben gets up to wash the dishes. I down the glass of wine I was drinking and pour myself another. My arm cast almost knocks the bottle over, but he saves it.
By Daniel Moore
Ai the Beautiful was the first woman permitted to join the sangha Buddhist order, and before long half its members abandoned their vows of celibacy driven by lust.
By Shara Concepción
First came the missionaries, their soft limbs sifting debris; their sloughing faces beading saltwater, full of want for remembrance. Gone, the clamor of rebuilding.
By Kathryn Kulpa
This was before the buses stopped running. An article had come out saying cinnamon oil killed the virus and now people doused themselves.
By Ryan Dempsey
They’d tried to forget it, tried to leave it in Raleigh, but it made the trip, hiding amongst the other boxes still sealed from the move.
By Madison Blair
my first lover smelled of indiana; cigarettes, dust, and cheap leather. the one after him, kentucky (bourbon and broken horses), and the last, a hint of florida (citrus, salt, and spring break,) and a dash of texas (barbeque, heat.)
By Charlie Stephens
We called that bay “The Liver” then, for its brown thickness, for its shame. We had moved back in like roaches, once the wealthy foreigners abandoned us for someplace cleaner to enjoy themselves.
By Melinda McCamant
Wet footprints, dancing shadows along the edge of the pool. The turbid water glows like fireflies and in its dark center the moon, almost full, overhead.