The week our landlord kicks us out
By Frankie McMillanNo rescue anywhere so we huddle around a fire under the railway bridge. Bennie says he knows where to score free chicken and he scrolls the Poultry Rehoming page.
In Case You Missed It
By Kim MagowanThere was a window when one could grocery shop without a mask. There was a window after my mother stopped chemo when she felt better, gained a few pounds. The color returned to her face.
Photo Story: Rigs Full O’ Pigs
By Lisa H. OwensThe squealing of hogs was enough to make his ears bleed. He’d driven all night … Rigs Full O’ Pigs. He liked the sound of that.
Rubbernecking
By Natalie WartherIt could be a tire term, or the title to a story about two duckies in the bath. It could be a waterproof turtleneck company, or even a condom-to-neck sex slang.
The Audubon Bar
By Maureen AitkenWhen it was too late, we realized all the punks here dressed like birds. Ravens in the corner, sipping Cape Cods. Hector, with his Kodachrome Mohawk, surely a parrot.
A Red Balloon, Too
By Andrew StancekStill waiting for Dad, three days later, with enough kibble for Rocko, a half-full bag of birdseed for Raa, the heel of a pumpernickel for us. Mr. Stefan is sure to drum on the door today, squeezing out rent money.
Photo Story: Library of the Apocalypse
By Kathryn KulpaOne night I slept in the library. Made a fortress of study carrels pushed together, like our old bunk beds.
Photo Story: Laird’s Tree Farm, Christmas Eve, 2026
Kim MurdockThe farmer said it took them all, bore through their core, drove the sap outwards.
Photo Story: Death Rites
By Kirsten CaseyIt took weeks for the ice on the lake to thaw, which made it easier for the body to float to the surface.
Pecking Order
By Jayne MartinOur food, untouched and cold, sat forbidden until he had finished his. Tears only brought his fist slamming against the table, upending our dishes, twisting our stomachs into painful knots.
A Blanket Decision
By Elizabeth ZahnAt the Twisted Stitchers meeting, I held up my first, nearly finished, crocheted baby blanket. They oohed and ahhed. “But look,” I said, “There’s a mistake 40 rows back. Should I frog it?”
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, Clay to Kintsukuroi
By Susan Hatters FriedmanMy deep purple vase sat proudly on the dining room table of our tiny home. Black sand from Te Henga was the temper I had worked into the clay.
Closing Time
By Patricia Q. BidarFiona banks her ride in front of Mel’s Hot & Cold Heroes. Her Oldsmobile Cutlass is like a battered lemon shark.
Photo Story: 8. And I Have Never Seen Such Savage Delight Since
By Yunya Yang1. Long ago, we drove in the woods. 2. It was night. My mother was at the wheel, the headlights conjuring shape-shifting wraiths drifting in the darkness.
