Tag: short story
-
Teenage Apostate
Nonfiction by Mike Jeffrey People sang loud at Keswick, so I sang loud, and I didn’t fall asleep during the sermons as I often did back home. I read along when scripture was quoted instead of flipping to the verses about boobs in Song of Songs.
-
Adirondack Express
Fiction by Zachary F. Gerberick By the time the three had reached the cabin, Hunter could feel the first waves of opiate withdrawal—a subtle restlessness unraveling inside his chest, spreading like a parasite.
-
Inheritance, Listed
Fiction by Sean Alan Cleary 1. Paul has a problem, which is he cannot seem to wake up early enough. He likes the silence of mornings in spring before the birds even wake — the flat light of May mornings in Cambridge. Now, though, even in the dark, he hears his son stirring in…
-
Lap Dance
Nonfiction by Katherine Heiny (Imaginary conversation with my parents: “This is my daughter-in-law, Brandi. She works at Hooters.”)
-
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…
-
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…
-
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.
-
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.”