Category: Prose
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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.
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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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Solstice
Nonfiction by Sean Prentiss Kingfisher Sarah’s birthday morning, she and her father in one canoe, casting into a stillwater lake. Blue dog and I in another, the solo canoe. Blue whining for land, whining to chase after frogs and snakes.
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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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Firsts
An Essay by Roy Luke Coffey The first time I was in a firefight, I was caught in the wide open. The patrol had come to a halt, and as I began to look around I realized how exposed I was.