By Warren Jones

Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. In fact, Mrs. Morrison thought the whole idea of death was a terrific waste of time. Imagine all the work that could be done if one didn’t have that eventual all-too-common annoyance hanging over them. To be reduced to a bag of bones was unacceptable. The saggy skin and droopy eyes. The bad posture and horrible smells that one was prone to as one approached the final paragraph of one’s story. It most certainly wasn’t how she planned to exit the theater.

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By Blonde Ambition

Your mother sees snakes. You have never finished Indiana Jones. You hold onto her left hand, and she asks if “Ramon” will come kill them. Fuck it. Yes, Bonny. Ramon will come. You invite Ramon into the house for a glass of your mother’s iced tea. You have a tea party with Toys R Us dishes and fortune cookies. Your mother’s hair is giant and nineties-curly. Ramon asks for corn tea. You are wearing your giant turquoise square glasses and proudly pour him a cup, ingredients unknown. He is broad-shouldered and shirtless and kind. He is ageless as you crawl onto his lap, cry into his chest. So are you. Continue Reading This Story

By Mary Benson

At seventeen, no men had shown interest in me before, except for Mr. Carol at the semi-formal dance, but he doesn’t count because he was married and felt bad for me. Because I was sitting by myself, he said, and I was such a smart girl, and high school boys are so shallow.

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By Maggie O.

Why do I have to watch out for the policeman again? It’s not fair. I’ve got to take care of Sissy. I’m hungry. She said she wouldn’t be long, but she said that last time, and she was gone for a long time. The policeman is scary. He’s got a big black gun. People are killed with it, she said, if they’re bad.

The window is dirty. I can see a little cat! It’s skinny. All the cats in the street are skinny. My head hurts. I’m hungry. I want to play outside, but the policeman might take Sissy, maybe kill her with his gun. Or kill our mom. Maybe, too, the ugly stinky man upstairs. Don’t like that man. He stinks like dog poop. Why did they take beer upstairs? The brown bottles, they stink too. All the men are stinky. Why does she want those men for drinking beer?

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By A.L. Yoder

A speck of dust landed in my nostril, waking me up in a fit of sneezing and coughing. I was slumped against the wall. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and the muscles in my back protested my awkward position as I braced myself on the windowsill and stood up.

I pulled back the curtain a few inches, trying to gauge how long I’d been asleep. Outside, only a faded streetlights stayed awake.

I let the curtain fall back as I looked around the detritus of the room, the debris of my search, and took a deep breath.

Boxes and boxes and boxes scattered, some fallen, their contents bursting forth. I grabbed the closest one, and ripped at the tape.

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By Vince Broerman

Harvey pulled hard from his drink. “Would you just leave me alone?” He fluffed the pillow, wanting to lay back on the couch, but his wife gave him that look, making his chest itch from the inside. He stood. “What is it you want me to do?” he asked, pushing the strands of gray hair away from his face.

Suzy popped out of her chair and paced, picking around the edges of her fingernails. “Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice warbled.

“I told you already—”

She honked the goofy bicycle horn she’d taken from the suitcase on the floor, flooding him with memories. Damn her for punching below the belt; she would know how that horn made him feel.

“I see you trying not to smile. Now finish getting dressed. Little Jimmy’s party starts in an hour.”

Harvey shook his head, again somber. “I don’t know. It’s all too awkward.”

“Because he’s Judge Parkinson’s son?” She placed the red ball nose on her face, also from the suitcase. Her mossy eyes shimmered.

“Give me that.” He yanked it off her; it squeaked like a dog’s toy. They both chuckled, then he crossed his arms over his barrel chest and frowned.

“C’mon Harvey. What’s going on here?”

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