Photograph by Nicole Monaghan
In My Back Pocket by Hannah Karena Jones
I keep paperclips and ticket stubs and Post-Its folded four times over and abandoned shells that don’t whisper ocean sounds in my ear and you.
Hannah Karena Jones is an Assistant Editor by day and a YA, fiction, historical, and memoir writer by night. Her work has appeared in Weave magazine and The Susquehanna Review, among others, and her book, Byberry State Hospital, is forthcoming from Arcadia Publishing. She maintains a blog at http://thewwaitingroom.wordpress.com/.
Flurry Up by Dan Sicoli
All she could remember was how fast
they rode through the snow and how the
Camero’s window stuck open. The weather
floated down like ash.
Dan Sicoli is the author of two chapbooks from Pudding House Press–Pagan Supper and the allegories. Odd weekends he bangs out chords on an old Gibson.
Infatuation by Esther Thurman
Piles of letters. One began, You don’t know me. I love you. He tossed the page, kept her photograph. Death Row was such a drag.
Esther Thurman spends most days alone with urges to sublimate certain emotions–at times, in good order; at times, in pandemonium–by writing, drawing, and making photos. Other humans interest Esther immensely, especially those in need, lost, or troubled. After her death, her remains will be transported to and studied at Knoxville, Tennessee’s “Body Farm” (University of Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Center).
Big Apple Red by Bruce Harris
They met for the first time after countless online exchanges.
“You’re Big Apple Red?”
She hesitated, said nothing.
“You’re not from the city, are you?”
Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.
Caught Red-handed by Sue Ann Connaughton
He assumed she’d pine for him after he left in the morning, until he found her fluffing away traces of his head-shape from the pillow.
Sue Ann Connaughton writes compact pieces from a drafty old house in Massachusetts. Her most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barnwood Poetry Magazine; The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts; The Linnet’s Wings; The Citron Review; The Meadowland Review; Boston Literary Magazine; On the Premises; Twenty20 Journal, Nasty Snips, and The Binnacle Eighth International Ultra-Short Competition anthology.
Two pieces by Rachel Wolford
Now You Sea Me
In the cove, we dally as the tide rises. With a flip of my tail, I plunge with you into the depths. Even lovers drown.
Jezebel
Flea-ridden and scratching, I wandered to my favorite shade. I had begged no breakfast in the market. Blood on the pavement made an adequate lunch.
Rachel Wolford enjoys the challenge of tiny stories.
Charmed by Sabrina Bullock
Sweet and sassy like the tea in the south. Yet only gentle curses come out of her mouth. “Bless your heart,” she says real smart.
Sabrina Bullock is a writer living in Kittrell, North Carolina. She enjoys cooking, gardening, crocheting, sewing, and especially writing poetry.
Two Pieces by Sandra Wilson
Scarlet
Time for face paint, heels to walk to war. Attack the town and hit the disco. No ammo, just drink to mollify your enemy. Partner.
Wellington Square
Do not fear the rain that births the green beneath our feet. Lightning burns away the dark. Thunder restarts your heart. Walk bravely into the storm.
Sandra Wilson, 29, is a UK resident who has been writing since she was very small. Recently these stories have escaped into literary lunes and static movement. She is currently editing her first novel into some state for submission.
Russian Red by Brooks Rexroat
Russian Red and dimples when she returns my crosswalk smile; I pivot, hope for eye contact—but it’s just swaying jet black as she recedes.
Brooks Rexroat writes and teaches in Cincinnati, Ohio. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Visit him online at http://www.brooksrexroat.com.
Marine Scene by Joanna M. Weston
The yacht leans into the waves. She trails one hand in the water. Watches the bubbles rise from where his body sank. ‘Champagne,’ she thinks.
Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes’, published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’ at her blog http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/ or http://smashwords.com/b/137826
Vermillion by Terry Sanville
The crippled soldier stares into Chaco Canyon. A hawk cries. I look up at the soaring raptor. When I look back, the soldier is gone.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one plump cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, an occasional play, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 150 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies including the Picayune Literary Review, Birmingham Arts Journal and Boston Literary Magazine. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his story “The Sweeper.” Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
Barely Nude by Ray Sharp
The illustrated woman, inked from her neck to her fingers and toes, stripped down to a smile suggesting she still had something up her sleeve.
Ray Sharp is a published poet and short story writer from the Michigan Upper Peninsula. He does not wear nail polish, but he has been to Warsaw and Gdansk.
A Story in Four Chapters by M.C. Harris
Otherwise Engaged
Kettle whistles. Voicemail beckons. Clouds chug past her kitchen window. She sips, listens again to the message, finger poised over her future. Sips. Listens. Delete.
Social Climber
She twists her wedding band in circles, contemplates the future: the clack of his teeth, his whistling nasal passages, the peculiar syntax, previously so endearing.
Don’t Think Twice
That little noise he makes when he proves her wrong. The hand closing to a fist. The suitcase she packs is of the highest quality.
Warming Trend
Bed. Blanket. Dear God, a pillow. From down the hall, whispers of sheltered women filter into the dreams of her children, asleep under donated comforters.
M.C. Harris has been thinking about how and where we end up, and why (Luck? M.C. wonders. Design? Dogged determination? Hard work? Blessings from above?), and invites you to read the chapters in whatever order you choose, in search of the happiest ending. M.C. continues to ponder the impending supernova.
