Stories

I let the call from my wife go to voicemail. It was seven, I should have finished at five. I should have finished a lot of things by now.

Emma Wilson lives in Scotland where she researches, writes and drinks lots of tea.

The old man on the bench fed his bread to the geese because he couldn’t read the sign telling him not to.

Elizabeth Moura lives in a converted factory in New England.

Momma told me Dad appears in her dreams. I told her if sees him again, ask about the cufflinks.

Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table in upstate New York.

Bereft in the chocolate aisle, mistaking under-the-breath singing for a kindred whimper, he turns. She has wild hair but hissing headphones.

Jacob Edwards is a writer poet person from Brisbane Australia. He watches the world, lives mostly in his head and tweets @ToastyVogon.

After the naloxone, he promised to change. But this time he told no one.

Johnna Talbot prefers to be all story and no backstory, but she does admit to writing in San Diego.

She washed and pressed his uniform to perfection. He died never knowing his laundress was a Jew who spat in the starch for his brown shirts.

Diane Englert, writer and theatre artist, is redefining herself and does not apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

He asked me to speak up in class, as if my stutter vanished with volume.

Paul Latham lives in West TN.

You wake up in the hospital, having failed even at this.

R. Gatwood is concise.

“Teddy says he doesn’t like it when you fight.”

Jon Bradmore loves tomatoes and black-capped chickadees.

In love again. So is she.

Arthur Klepchukov was born between Black Seas, Virginian Beaches, and San Franciscan waves. Read his words at ArsenalOfWords.com.