Short Fiction and Poetry

The Butterfields arrived at the grand Monument Avenue Victorian as darkness was taking over. Nine-year-old Robin sat with his mother in the black Lincoln’s back seat during the long trip [...]

I told you everything I told you I’m not leaving the house today Nothing feels right and nothing is okay [...]

You think you can solve this country. Go ahead — circle it with your thumb, like a penny you can throw at a fast‑moving car. [...]

The café spilled out onto the street. Small tables and thin metal chairs that rocked if you leaned too far back. [...]

“It’ll make your job easier,” my boss said. “It’ll take my job,” I said. “Eventually.” He patted my shoulder and left me with the robot. [...]

From the height of the second-floor balcony, my dad hung every year a few flowerpots to cover the building’s missing chunks of plaster [...]

Lou saw the red van as soon as he turned the corner. He was just a minute away from reaching the shop. [...]

But wind only feels like flight when you are dry, and love only feels like love when you deserve it. [...]

Steering with one hand at 12 o’clock and with the other wrapped around a long-neck bottle [...]

In 1987, Stony worked the counter at the Presto Lounge, deep inside The Mumbles, a neighborhood already known for its poverty and crime [...]