Category: Fiction
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The Last Night of the Horizon
fiction Nemec, Jason Basa Nemec, Last Night of the Horizon, Nemec Horison, Short fiction nemec, short story NemecFiction by Jason Basa Nemec What can I say about the way Tommy Jensen played guitar, the way he sang?
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The Fool Killer
Fool Killer, michael poor story, Michael Poore, michael poore short stories, michael poore stories, Poore Fool Killer, short fiction, short fiction michael poore, short fiction poore, short story, short story Poore, The Fool KillerBy Michael Poore They were going to hang John. John was five. He lived on a farm with his aunt and uncle and some cousins, and an eighty-year-old grandmother they called Big Ma. Big Ma wasn’t big. She was a frail old lady, and they all treated her like she might break at…
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Windmill
CAsey McConahay, short fiction windmills, windmill casey mcconahay, windmill Mcconahay, windmill short fiction, windmill short story, Windmills short storyBy Casey McConahay The blades of the windmill were tapered like spear-points. They turned in laggard revolutions. As they spun, they made shadows on the dry, level land. There were vultures to the east of the windmill.
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Letters to Jim Harrison
fiction by Sean Lovelace Letter to Jim Harrison #13 Another winding down, December. Thus attempting to name more trees, a field guide and close study of bark and berry and leaf. But it isn’t snagging the brain, too much folly. Still too jumpy to stop and seriously consider the rain, only the sound—ticking and tapping—only…
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Naseeb or Not Naseeb
center for fiction, fiction, Hafeez Lakhani, hyderabad india, naseeb, naseeb or not naseeb, short storyFiction by Hafeez Lakhani In Rawalpindi, Anil lived downstairs. My father had kirana shop—small grocery—Anil’s father, dry fruit in same lane, and whenever I met Dad as he parted red dust of colony on scooter, it seemed he was offering me sweet dried dates from Anil’s father.
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Lilm
Two Flashes of Fiction by Helen Phillips We like to sit on a rock. We like to sit on a rock shaped like a turtle. We like to dig holes in the sand and watch them fill with water. We like to drink rain. We like to sit in sun.
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Daddy-o
Fiction by Whitney Collins Daddy-o, the optimist, always came to town in his fringed vest and yellow van for the months that ended in b-e-r. “I’m like a summer oyster,” he’d say. “Can’t nobody keep me down.”
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Halyomorpha Halys
Fiction by Megan Fahey The stinkbug trod along the baseboard—one slow, sure stick-leg in front of the other. Jennifer clutched a towel to her breast and watched the insect closely.