The day before my grandmother died, I believed in snow, in its ability to cover all that is unkind in this world if only for a single night.
Audra Coleman writes a little of this and a little of that in the mountains of North Carolina.
So many illusions died that day on the overpass. Looking down on the passing cars, he realized that UPS trucks aren’t brown on top.
Ben Roth teaches writing and philosophy at Harvard.
A second date was fine. First Turing Test: inconclusive, but the pasta here was good, and she liked him anyway, and perhaps that was enough.
Katherine Knight is watching the rain. She hides at @codaevermore.
I pretended to be asleep when we got home, so Dad would carry me up to bed. He knew, but carried me up anyway.
Tom Velterop likes writing flash fiction and the beginnings of novels he never finishes.
He checked the flight status again. No change. Her plane landed, a month ago.
Bruce Harris is retired.
She liked to spot constellations. Soon after she closed her eyes, the stars went out, the phosphors around their plastic cores depleted.
Xinwen Zhu (@xinwinner) is a biologist who generates too many fleeting thoughts and half-ideas.
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.
My dad collects mugs. For years, everywhere he goes he swings by a gift shop for one. Today, we’re headed to LA and getting him a fourth.
John Murphy is recently graduated and lives in Virginia.
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.