By Francine Witte
I throw his orphaned clothes into the washer’s gaping mouthhole. I push back words it is wanting to say – oh but he is so beautiful and what about his soft-lip kiss.
By L. Soviero
The pilot tells his wife life is miniature in his work: small armies of toiletries, itty bitty sewing kits, baby bottles of booze. His wife teases that every time he comes home, he looks smaller too.
Sarah Gillett
Helga Testorf looked at herself in the gallery. She remembered that day well. The bed, so close to the window that it almost touched the wall.
Cheryl Snell
My brain has dragged a thought into the traffic jam, daring it to run into the street beneath cables dangling from junction boxes either sucking up misplaced electricity, or stretched like clotheslines on the verge of fraying.
Andrea Daniels
The bristles of the broom were degrees of red and pink, accumulated over the years from the slow push towards the drain in the center of the room. An infinitesimal grade designed to lend gravity a hand.
By Cheryl Snell
Before one sandal kicks off the other by the door; before the run across the busy street, cloth bags fluttering; before the break away from joggers prancing at the stop sign ...
By Francine Witte
Even with his memory gone, his teeth continue, and I take my father to the dentist because food must be chewed, and the father he was would never use a feeding tube.
By Emily Rivers
Your pencil snaps halfway through the SAT. Hand up, you stare at the Earth Day poster above the proctor’s head. It says: We Are The Future!
By Erika Ng
Her voice is swallowed by the sound of a dozen languages cutting across your ears. You ask her to repeat the question and she says, more annoyed this time, “Do you have anything to declare?”