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by Jackee Budesta Batanda
I wanted to ask them what would happen if their father did not come this time. The question stayed on my tongue. I guess it was the way they sang joyfully in their language, which I could not understand at all, that stopped me.
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by Matthew Bilyeu
Over rights to the experience, a contention. Looking my brother in the new face (afraid and hard). And mom, thin on the plastic IKEA chair. My hands are on his, both sets on the trimmer.
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by Stephen Dixon
Some six months ago she came into the kitchen while he was cutting up vegetables for a salad and said "Still getting that picture you told me about?" and he said "Same one, just a minute before you asked me about it. Weird, isn’t it."
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by David Evanier
Then there are the editors who wouldn't publish me until they were dying of fatal illnesses, committing suicide, or retiring. What the hell, they thought: Be nice. Let him in on your way out. It's too late for him anyway.
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by Kathi Hansen
I sit at my dressing table aware that it won’t be my dressing table for long. You may decide to keep it, and really you should. I’d hang on to it myself, were I not so afraid of the memories.
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by Fred Johnston
In his younger day, drink had taken the edge off; there had been liaisons, of course, discreet, secret, furtive, illegal. Love under the moon's dark face.
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by Alisha Karabinus
That awful sour stink wasn't there, and the sudden strikes of anger, the unpredictable flares of temper, those were also missing, so there was no reason for Delilah to crawl over every inch of the house looking for all the old clues—bottles buried in the middle of the garbage, aluminum cans crushed down to nothing and wrapped in paper bags, a bent bottle cap embossed with one of the old familiar logos.
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by Eric Maroney
No one remembers when Rabinowitz began to tell his students about the Angel of Death. It was sometime at the beginning of the term, but he started slowly, sparsely, as if prepping the ground for the seed he would eventually plant.
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by Matthew Scheuermann
Our neighbors were satisfactory, and Dad got along with none of them. As the community grew around us, he sank deeper into the house.
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