Stories Archives - Page 2 of 30

On the Rocks

Tina Barry
Life has dwindled for Sarah. One busted knee and there goes the sequined skating costumes, the tiny skirts and razor-sharpened skates. Forget triple axels and the ecstatic crowds.

Where it leads

James Montgomery
For years, doctors shone torches, scientists ordered scans, the child sitting patiently throughout, occasionally lifting his palm from his forehead with a tiny suction-cup pop.

Pocket Dad

Nicole Brogdon
Once, I was small and he was a giant, making me jump for the razor strap hanging above the toilet, to whip me.

Extremophiles

Emily Hall
Knee-deep in the eggy marsh, Dr. Smith and three classmates lifted a refrigerator from the water like pallbearers. Hinges rusted, drooping.

Only Perfection Can Save Us

Chelsea Stickle
There’s a cemetery under my house where I’ve buried all the old versions of me that didn’t work out, abandoning them in the damp darkness that would otherwise gnaw me to the bone.

Brandon McNeice
We lost the case on a single word I bent. The interpreter oath pinned my lapel. Not asylum, “haven.” I said it softer, my tongue stalling on the s, and the officer checked “safe.” The folder shut like a door.

Finisher

Rebecca Klassen
Dad can’t start anything: a book, a college fund, a conversation, so I know he’s why my bike seat is missing, because I snuck one of his cigarettes, and he’s taken my seat in hope that I’ll start with, “Where’s my seat?”

Solicitation

Gary Fincke
The woman on the phone claims she is saving children. "Do you know these people?”" she says. "All are drunk drivers. These are their dead."

Coat Pile

Keith Woodruff
On the bed in his parent's bedroom the coat pile grows, humped up like a mutant octopus, tentacles smelling of cigarettes, perfume, and leather. When everyone is sufficiently drunk, the son sneaks in, rifles through the pockets, and takes a little change from each.

Kind of Story

Jefferson Navicky
The man was hooked on seeing the rest of the fight, which had just transported from earth to heaven. He was a dedicated Spectator, as only a son can be. So he jumped up and down in a hole, died, and popped up to heaven to watch the end.

Rabbit

Sherrie Flick
Fred hated the rabbit. Along the walkways of his garden, it laid out like a fashion model at a photoshoot.

Acts of Intercession

Michele H. Porter
We gather on rooftops, slosh gin and champagne down our throats. We haul chandeliers up six flights, throw them over, laugh when praying crowds flee thousands of glass shards shattering across Michigan Avenue.

What She Wore

Tracy Royce
Diapers. A bunny onesie and a smile displaying two front teeth. Rain boots. Mud. A vampire cape and fangs. Braces. Itchy gym shorts, a sports bra. Band-Aids, then scabs. Sunscreen and a one-piece swimsuit. Too much purple eye shadow.

The Distance We Name

L. F. Khouri
I downloaded an app that lets you name stars. Thought it’d be funny—tiny acts of colonization from my couch. I named one Nakba, another Teta and Sido’s old house in Haifa. There’s a bright one I called The UN Did Nothing, a faint flicker I labeled Peace Talks.