When the war was over, we returned to what was left of our houses and pretended life was normal.
After/Again by Kathryn Ordiway
read more
Issue #11
On Hold by Sarah Salway
She was just passing the phone box the first time it rang. Or that’s what she said afterwards.
Orson Welles by Fred Muratori
Lesser evils gather and disperse, ephemeral as fine hairs on a barbershop floor. But the greater evils aren’t obvious until it’s too late. You think Looks like it might rain and then a SWAT team storms the house next door.
Betrayal by Melanie Márquez Adams
When I finally had the courage to say goodbye, I let my beloved doll know that our time together was coming to a tragic end.
Insurance by Elaine Chiew
You go diving with him in the Bahamas as a leap of faith, even though you’re not sure whether it’s a leap of faith in yourself or in him or in your togetherness.
Tapped by Kim Magowan
A week before Ruth’s daughter heads to college, she crawls into Ruth’s bed in the middle of the night. Shivering, Hannah describes her nightmare.
Homely by Raki Kopernik
Behind the picture window on Twelfth and Grand, the one you can see from the street if you walk on the south side of the sidewalk and look up to the second floor, lives a ten-pound longhaired calico that spends her days looking out at the passing cars.
Beakless by Justin Herrmann
It’s my week with Madison. My first week, in fact, since things have been settled. She’s been gaining weight at her mother’s, and, I believe, has stopped speaking proper sentences.
Fire Wall 1 and Fire Wall 2 by Nancy Tingley
Choking smoke, gagging fear. The fire wall sailed down the hill as the kids, wedges among hurried belongings, cried, Arthur, Arthur.
Dadjinsky by Hardy Griffin
I awoke in écarté. My left arm curved around the pillow and up to the headboard and my right foot arched toward tightly pointed toes.
Animals at the Ball by Joy Kennedy-O’Neill
A sequined ball gown glides past me. Eyes in an ostrich mask narrow. “Are you a donkey?”
Good Day for the Clouds by James Hartman
The sky was so clear the blue looked prickly, like if you raised your palm it might cut your skin, but the sun was mild and there was no breeze as Jonathan sat in his old beach chair in his open garage and closed his eyes.
Where Your Eyes Used to Be by Nod Ghosh
The first time I took you from your grave, there were spaces where your eyes used to be.