Dearly Departed by James Claffey
The porridge oats soaked overnight in the double broiler and sat on top of the cold Aga range.
Where You Left Her by Paul Asta
She lived three blocks over. Four houses down. Played the violin for the past sixteen years and hated it. Earlier she had asked you if you could curl your lips Chicago Style and you tried desperately to imagine what exactly that would look like.
We Might Be in New York Already by Maggie Su
We are making mountains out of molehills again, we tell ourselves the morning after. But the night before, in the alleyway behind the gay bar beneath a KFC, we breathe in air like it might slip, sands through an hourglass.
Wilson Dreams of Banana Peels by Gail Louise Siegel
In my son’s old room (my office), the original Les Miserables playing in French, trying to work myself up to a little scribbling.
Ash by Margaret Bentley
One. My husband wonders why at 48, I have begun to smoke from time to time. It is difficult to explain, so I do not try.