By Corinne Silver They arrived silently, swiftly during the night and stood present by morning. They flocked the fields, parking lots, and manmade suburban ponds. They were big.
By Jayne Martin Our 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.
By Elizabeth Zahn At 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?”
By Susan Hatters Friedman My 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.
By Yunya Yang
1. 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.
Nancy Stohlman is drawn to the performative in life and fiction, which means her words don't seem to live just on the page. They tend to always be looking for a stage.
Writers aren’t always sure what is and isn’t necessary in their work, especially since they’ve lovingly crafted every word. Each story will ultimately tell you what it needs, but a great exercise to make that clearer is to cut your story in half.
By Yash Seyedbagheri
Wait your turn, signs proclaim. Wait for Chinese food. Wait to pick up cocktails from the bar, your only Friday night friends now.