By Dennis Sinar

Wednesday when I visited, Josey told me she liked tangerines better than the little oranges I’d brought—tangerines have no seeds. That was just typical. Over the last several visits she’d become a new person, one who skipped over positives and only saw the negative side.

Today, when she talked about the oranges, she had a way of saying it that was not so much an overt criticism, but more of a whine. I hate whining. Mother discouraged using the word “hate” because it has such a negative connotation, but in this case, I thought it anyway.

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By A J Rankin

The stars gaze down at me, merciless and piercing. “What the hell are you doing up?” they say. “We haven’t finished our shift yet.”

Don’t I know it, I think back at them, squinting through the damp at the orange readout. 15 minutes.

A schoolboy type is standing there, collar and shoes beneath an anorak. He half-turns at my arrival, letting his peripheral do the work. Probably wondering if it’s still early enough for weirdos.

Another passenger arrives, shorter, rougher. He occupies himself with a tangle of headphones before the guitar riffs of Hotel California fill his ears. 9 minutes.

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By Kate Hallett Dayton

As the sun rises above the clouds, the green of Rocky Island emerges, yet fog lingers over Red Cliff Reservation on the mainland. We’re moored in Preferred on the southeast side of the dock. The Yawl of America slipped in next to us late last night.

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By Wayne Scheer

So I says if anyone of youse can fit into these here shoes, I’ll treat youse like a princess. They don’t know me from Adam, so I make like I’m a freaking prince of a guy. Two of the three broads is so ugly they can save money on Halloween masks. And they get all excited, like I’m really gonna marry one of ’em and traipse off to fairyland.

Anyways, the two ugly ones push past the cute one and stick out their fat, smelly feet.

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By Perry McDaid

“Once upon a time,” she said, staring into the near distant conifer forest which swamped the porch with its melange of fragrances. The fading sun seemed to spark off the flecks in her slate-grey irises…like iron filings in a heated crucible.

“Aunt Jinny?”

“Yes?”

“I asked if you ever had a great love.”

Jinny smiled condescendingly. “Now what would you know of great love, Bridie? Sure you’re only fifteen.”

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By Steve Myers

—You were there…Danang? In ’66?

—Only air medevac…in and out on my way to P.I.

—Not me. One whole year. I was just out of high school and bang! Drafted. My luck. There were guys given the choice of jail or the Army in our platoon. You give them that choice then give them weapons…rifles…grenades…all the ammunition they want and tell them to go kill. Hell, they loved it. But me, most of us, we were scared shitless for 365 days. You couldn’t’ve pounded a nail up my butt with a sledge hammer. Bad. Still, after all those years, still dream about it. Funny…like smoking. I gave it up twenty years ago and I still dream I’m smoking one of those small cigars…cigarillos. I dream about the boats…pontoon boats. Charlie would swim under water and cut holes in them. You never knew when you’d sink or swim, right? The worst part was the mind games. He’d let you know how easy he could get to you. And the tunnels…bomb them…even napalm. They’d come back out. Win? Could we have won? Shit, we’d have been there forever. Look at Afghanistan.

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