Archive for the ‘July 2009’ Category
On Desperate Seas
| by Kate MacLeod |
It all started with Jane’s letter. Our Penelope was deathly ill, and I must come at once. The letter went on, of course. In typical Jane fashion, she filled a page and a half with the various inadequacies of Dr. Mansley. Only Jane would argue the science at length without ever once considering I mightRead more…
Pu’ukani’s Song
| by Hannah Steenbock |
Pu’ukani took a deep breath, allowed himself to sink back under again and angled his head downward. This was a new song, one he had only sung once before. And yet, it sounded through his heart and through his bones and reached out to the corners of this ocean, telling everyone who listened about theRead more…
Love, Death and Doughnut Holes
| by Stephanie Scarborough |
Robby Ringwald owned the only drive-thru funeral business in Texas. It was located right across the street from Wanda’s Donut Hut, my humble place of employment. Business has been slow, so I’ve had a lot of time to stare out the front window and watch drive-thru proceedings when I’m not working my way through theRead more…
The Size of Things
| by Clare Deming |
Krinak squinted in the glare of the desert sun and tried to ignore the repeated jabs of the spear points against his rubbery skin. He was not sure what had upset the horde, but they were herding him toward a village – a cluster of low mounds that dotted the outskirts of the rocky gorgesRead more…
Rites of Passage
| by Ripley Patton |
As I flew down the hill, my bare feet slapped the packed earth. My chest surged forward, my upper body threatening to over-end me. I had done it before; flown head-over-heals into the ravine and lay there at the bottom, bloody and breathless. This was what the village boys called “Wooing Mother”. If the earthRead more…
Change
| by Greg Schwartz |
She trapped me with her jaundiced eye, and I couldn’t look away. Her tattered clothes and dirty skin seemed out of place here, an anomaly on Light Street among the tailored suits and eighty dollar haircuts. “Got any change, mister?” Her wrinkled face looked up at me imploringly from where she sat, a mass ofRead more…
One Year’s Worth of Woe
| by S.J.Hirons |
I The Maker of Narrow Houses stood and looked at the building for awhile, as though he were a returning visitor lost to fond memory; then he began the gentle ascent of the driveway that turned off the road and wound up to the house where it stood, half-hidden behind a grove of trees, atRead more…