UNASHAMED • by Todd Glasscock
At seven that morning, as she did every morning before work, Alma Day lit a candle for her husband and set it on the small altar she had made for him in her grief support group. Then she walked to… Continue Reading
grief
SMALL HANDS • by Huy Le
“I can do a cartwheel, want to see?” The little girl turned hand over feet across the playground. She cartwheeled three times and landed on her knees, smiling over her shoulder. I wondered who this little girl was and why… Continue Reading
ANNA IS GONE • by Heather Haigh
They tried not to notice my voice was too loud at the funeral. I’m the quiet one.My skirt was too short. I’m the modest one. They admonished me quietly when I got detention but I saw the panic in their… Continue Reading
GREEN BEANS • by Dawn Muenchrath
I found it on the counter by the microwave, under a stack of yellowing envelopes. It was sticking to the bottom of the pile and I would have missed it altogether when I picked them up had it not leapt… Continue Reading
BREAKING BALL • by Michael Snyder
There’s this ball, pink-seamed and spinning fast, its coordinates locked on the northern perimeter of my left eye socket. All the proof I need that God hates me. No surprise, as my earthly father was never that fond of me… Continue Reading
ANGELA AND THE HOMEN • by Gosia Buzzanca
My grandmother’s last breath was a struggle. “She died last night,” the neighbour came knocking. “It wasn’t a pretty sight. Poor sod, gulping for air like that.” I called her “grandmother” even though she was not. She had taken me… Continue Reading
MATCHED • by Bob DeRosa
I understood the swiping, I’m not an idiot. I’d dated my share of guys, but the stakes were so much higher this time around. I would swipe right and as soon as someone else did, we’d be in this thing.… Continue Reading
THE TRUTH WAITS • by Elizabeth Lyvers
The day of the funeral, it fails to rain. It would be easier to bear if the sky wept with us. Instead, sunlight and warmth touch every corner of our mountains, flicker on every tree leaf, fill each breeze. A… Continue Reading
LARRY • by Justin Cox
My older cousin Larry and I sit on the hood of his rust-bitten Caddy, overlooking The Park. We eat greasy burgers as the summer sun slowly melts into the horizon. One day closer to another school year. Everyone in the… Continue Reading
BRINGING THE CHILDREN HOME • by Amethyst Loscocco
This morning I scrubbed the apartment more thoroughly than was necessary considering I’d declined all visitors, both the well- and ill-wishing kind. I ignored the phone. The battery will be dead in a few hours and I’m considering letting it… Continue Reading