by Joseph Love
Pat twists his mouth all over while backing up the truck. The beep-beep echoes through the neighborhood. The cab rumbles and shudders. I hadn’t noticed how big the bucket truck was. It’s larger than our house.
by Tim Fredrick
Usually I was forgotten and unseen under a piece of furniture or knocked down the stairs. This time, I was forgotten and seen, but I didn’t focus on this. How could I when I had done the impossible?
by Carey Dunne
Joey and Apache don’t know this, but they’re standing in a spot in the desert where once every three hundred and fifty years, a solar eclipse sends all the scorpions in the desert from their holes. Dark, for scorpions, is like morning light.
by Tammy Lynne Stoner
The two chubby white birds flapped up then rested back down again, a little closer to us.
by Stuart Mark
A movie is a good place for a first date as long as both parties respect the boundaries marked by the cup holders. I've been wrapped in arms, had my knees squeezed, my neck massaged, my thigh stroked, even my hair playfully tugged and once a finger seductively pushed - accidentally, I'm pretty sure – up my nose.
by Fenton Grant
Pap Pap’s glasses, the brown rectangles, catch every cent of the sun, its whole worth. They cast a pale mirror as if looking through a beer bottle. But on the inside? Pap Pap can’t see.
by William Ames
In theory, each Sigma 09’ has memorized a line from the St. Crispin Day speech in Henry V, supposedly Ryan’s favorite play, although this claim remains unsubstantiated and highly suspect as far as I’m concerned. Stephen Thayer, our class’s Grand Procurator, was “one hundred fuckin’ percent” that he’d heard Ryan mention it “at some point Freshman year.”
by Steven Earnshaw
The area had been created at the end of the nineteenth century, and the rows of terraces had an unappealing uniformity. The story of this street was part of the estate agent blurb. The Master Builder had planted a tub of ivy against the wall of his house at the top of the street at the top of the hill.
by Christin Rice
And so began George’s career. Boxes would appear daily, at least one somewhere among the eight floors. More often than not a sticky note would boldly declare its intended destiny, sometimes with an added “Thanks!” The basement floor was flooded with these, due to their brief half-life of stickiness.
by Jeff Simonds
My father was a great teacher of terrible lessons, and consequently couldn’t be trusted to teach me anything correctly. I discovered this in third grade when I found out they are not called “smashed potatoes.”