Gonna Be a Poet by Tom Vowler
Between hits we hang out at the beach, perched naked on salt-rimed stanchions, cocking a leg high like we’re the Karate Kid, before tumbling into the waves’ icy maw, where we bawl so hard even the gulls are offended.
Development by Nan Wigington
In the development, nothing grew except concrete, asphalt, pink ranches, and brown split levels.
Straight Through by Rena Willis
It’s illegal to shoot pigeons in the suburbs; maybe it’s illegal in cities too, or in counties, or maybe across the whole state.
Big Dog by Dan Crawley
Denise entered the extended stay hotel room, tugging off her damp windbreaker over her
pharmacy scrubs. She called, “Hello, my darling girl.” A small collie jumped toward Denise.
Ran by Dan Crawley
Mom took me to an outdoor mall after picking me up from kindergarten. In the middle of an
atrium, enormous rocks were piled on each other like giant meatballs. She let me climb over
them while she waited on a bench nearby.