By Jane Ciabattari
He slammed out the door. What just happened? She loved him. He loved her. What just happened? She couldn’t remember her last remark. They’d been drinking. They were about to make love.
It's no surprise that Meg Tuite's favorite word is "implosion." Her flash pieces are fraught with the kind of drama that can't be contained. Bystanders beware. Her characters are unlikely to go down alone.
By Brad Garber
As the black blood worm burrows through the thick skin of my foot I lounge naked along the Zambezi sipping cool California pinot gris smoking my smuggled Cuban my atomic breath containing the exhaled souls of Roman emperors...
By Susan Roney-O'Brien
Skipping school, mittened boys skim stones as the ’58 Oldsmobile, loaded with gloved and hatted Sunset Retirement Home ladies passes. The women wave and the boys watch their faces, hear Big Band music.
By Himanee Gupta-Carlson
My mother called me a few days after the mosque fell. We had gone to India together earlier that year, when debates over whether the sixteenth century mosque had been built on the ruins of a temple dominated the national news.
By Deborah Rocheleau
Why does everyone patronize mice? They’re always “unwanted guests,” or “the new resident.” Never “the prisoner on death row” or “the vessel for deadly diseases you would rather avoid.”
By S.E. White
Reg and Carol were lovers who never made love. They kissed once, but their lips felt too warm, too moist. They met weekly at an abandoned schoolhouse, sat in the dusty desks, played cards, chess, completed crosswords.
By Joseph Heathcott
In our wanderings about the city, we pass through each other. What is a human being, after all? Nine of every ten cells in our bodies are not human: bacteria, fungi, viruses, yeasts and symbiants.