Category: Prose
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Up, Up: From Furrow to Silo
Julia Shipley, nonfiction, nonfiction by julia shipley, nonfiction short, Up Up from Furrow to Silo, up up nonfiction, up up nonfiction shipleyNonfiction by Julia Shipley Go ahead, tell me your totem animal is Wolf, She-bear, Eagle. Mine? Heat Bug, Jar Fly, Lyre Man: Magicicada Septendecula.
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Lap Dance
Nonfiction by Katherine Heiny (Imaginary conversation with my parents: “This is my daughter-in-law, Brandi. She works at Hooters.”)
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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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Ski Lesson
Becky Mendelbaum, mendelbaum ski lesson, non-fiction short, nonfiction short, nonfiction story, Ski Lesson, ski lesson mendelbaumBy Becky Mendelbaum When I tell my mother I’m going skiing, she laughs. “That’s strange,” she says. “You’ve always hated skiing.”
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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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Here I Am
Excerpt from The Map of Enough by Molly Caro May Grass scratched up against my hips. Grass, it seemed, was the way here, even as dark rushed around me: miles of grass, tall and dense and stretching back to black clumps of trees, slumbering mountains, and who knows what else on this warm July night.