The Size of Memory

By Merrill Sunderland
Once upon a time, you loved being big. Your bone-smuggling classmates reminded you daily...

The End of the End

By Stephen Cicirelli
She asked sarcastically because she was afraid of what he really thought of her.

Regarding the Muse or My Husband

By Maria Pinto
We rode a barrel over Niagara Falls as practice for riding night over the skyline.

Photo Story: I am …

I am the cold shiver in the warm bath, the sour bite of the cherry, the wedge of food in your windpipe. I am half past home time for the kids you trusted to the swing park. I am the rise in your stomach as you take the blind bend on the brink of too late. I am the late night call that...

I Sometimes Imagine This

By Bianca Ozeri
I read in a book that it is not just the earth that is dying, but the universe itself.

Grant Faulkner Writes about Life’s Fissures

Grant Faulkner, the author of Fissures, is a living Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. He is both the director of National Novel Writing Month and the co-founder of 100 Word Story. I believe we can safely say that Grant has an unabashed fetish for microfiction as well as an enduring, romantic love of the long-form novel, and the creative processes relating to both.

Little Bear

By Roberta Beary
Goldilocks hugs the wheel and we’re off. Speeding to church. I’m squeezed next to her in the front with Mama Bear.

Color Theory

By Leonard Kress
Tommy did the hair of all the wives. Bouffants, streaks, highlights, henna, they came back every week.

Fringe

Alan Humason
He sometimes buys flowers for his wife, the mixed batch at Safeway. He speaks mostly in declarative sentences. His car lacks navigation but has Bose.

The Toad

By Grant Faulkner
Flattened by a car, its arms spread out, a little like Jesus. The sun had baked it as crisp as a potato chip. “Poor toad,” Maria said. “Didn’t know how to cross the road.”

Photo Story: The Meteorologists

Laying on the hood of her old Volvo, we scanned the sky, looking for the meteor shower the weatherman had promised—“he must know, he’s a meteorologist”—our conversation continually broken by exclamations of “there’s one."

The Toast

By Heather Bourbeau
The clinking of glasses as she clears tables will be what she remembers most clearly.