When the Solid Gives Wa...

By Kathleen Latham
The dog trotted onto the frozen pond to fetch an errant stick. That is how I picture it, at least. The boy trudging along the snow packed shore.

Photo Story: The Jungle...

By Hanne Christensen
I remember this moment. Shrieks and laughter that I ignore. Cold metal on my hands, dizzying anticipation while I calculate whether woodchips are sufficient enough to soften my fall.

Rubbernecking

By Natalie Warther
It could be a tire term, or the title to a story about two duckies in the bath. It could be a waterproof turtleneck company, or even a condom-to-neck sex slang.

The Audubon Bar

By Maureen Aitken
When it was too late, we realized all the punks here dressed like birds. Ravens in the corner, sipping Cape Cods. Hector, with his Kodachrome Mohawk, surely a parrot.

A Red Balloon, Too

By Andrew Stancek
Still waiting for Dad, three days later, with enough kibble for Rocko, a half-full bag of birdseed for Raa, the heel of a pumpernickel for us. Mr. Stefan is sure to drum on the door today, squeezing out rent money.

Photo Story: Library of...

By Kathryn Kulpa
One night I slept in the library. Made a fortress of study carrels pushed together, like our old bunk beds.

Photo Story: Laird’s Tr...

Kim Murdock
The farmer said it took them all, bore through their core, drove the sap outwards.

Photo Story: Death Rite...

By Kirsten Casey
It took weeks for the ice on the lake to thaw, which made it easier for the body to float to the surface.

Memento

By Sarah Scott
The day Lucinda turned nine, her father appeared at the back door. She hadn’t seen him in two years.

Pecking Order

By Jayne Martin
Our food, untouched and cold, sat forbidden until he had finished his. Tears only brought his fist slamming against the table, upending our dishes, twisting our stomachs into painful knots.

A Blanket Decision

By Elizabeth Zahn
At the Twisted Stitchers meeting, I held up my first, nearly finished, crocheted baby blanket. They oohed and ahhed. “But look,” I said, “There’s a mistake 40 rows back. Should I frog it?”

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to...

By Susan Hatters Friedman
My deep purple vase sat proudly on the dining room table of our tiny home. Black sand from Te Henga was the temper I had worked into the clay.