Photo Story: The Abominable

By Michael Snyder
Lucy could bend even the smallest rays of light to her will. She created her own humidity, burrowed deep, and made dormant things grow.

Sherrie Flick: Finding Truth in Compression

Why did we interview Sherrie Flick? First, we loved Sherrie Flick’s recent story collection, Whiskey, Etc. Second, we’ve heard a lot of great things about Sherrie from others in the flash fiction community, such as, "Wow, you have to read Sherrie Flick's flash," and "She's an amazing food writer." Third, we wished we would have asked her questions about Pittsburgh, but fortunately she told us about a road trip she’d have with Gertrude Stein.

Sweetie Pie

By Sherrie Flick
I started calling both my dog and husband Sweetie Pie the same year my husband found my lover’s cashmere sock.

Salient Sounds

By Connor Walsh
Back when I was young enough to invent and trust in my own Boy Scout knot, I tied a tape-recorder to a turtle’s shell and set it free.

Invite Him In, Ask For Help

By Simon Jimenez
The zipper began at the nape of her neck. With thumb and forefinger, he pulled, slow, drawing out the sound of the unraveling of caught teeth.

Photo Story: Imaginary Number

By Shara Concepción
Before the necktie hung itself, a knot doing unto me what the body did; before the engine, fuel wound, light, I was the instrument and the song, un-living on the vocal cord of God, an imaginary number on a line I couldn’t see.

Great Composers of the American Popular Song

By Lina Chern
A window opens on a forest: trees, moonlight, a path. You’ve been here before: the knot in a pine becomes a long-lost face, the veil of leaves a scarf of blue silk.

The Evergreen

By Tara Ramsey
Hannah's motorcycle fishtails on wet pavement before she goes down. This is it.

Descent

By Levi Andrew Noe
I tried to teach you how to shoot a spitwad. How to find the right shooter, just the right diameter.

Deep Blue

By Patricia O'Donnell
A farmer in Iowa continued farming well into his 80s. He drove his air-conditioned tractor ten hours a day, even when there was nothing to till, nothing to plow, nothing to disc or harrow or plant.

Photo Story: Cutting Lines

By Kathryn Pallant
It was her father’s favorite station: polished marble, vaulted ceiling, windows straight from a mansion house. Just like the best library he ever went to, but never had time for until the end.

Backyard Aristotle

By Leonard Kress
In this morning’s backyard drama the tiny green bird has crashed into the glass of the sliding door and lies feet up and claw-splayed on the brick patio.