A Tiny And Colorful Literary Journal

Posts tagged ‘Bruce Harris’

February

Sun worshiper by Lisa Nielson

The ocean is all teeth today–devouring the sand, but enraged by its compliance.  Suppler days are dreamy, but we have monsters to tame.

Lisa Nielsen is studiously working on her resolution to write more and clean less.

Below the Belt by Alice G. Otto

Friends parade pocketed portraits of their kids: soccer, choir, scouts. The missing baby teeth are daggers.  Nothing’s taking, nothing’s working.  Your own wallet is barren.

Alice G. Otto lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas with her husband, two voracious beagles, and an extra-toed cat. She is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas.

Go Go Green by Bruce Harris.

She made her own compost, bought an electric car, and heated her home with solar energy.  Everything was sustainable and recyclable, except her nail polish.

Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.

Three pieces by Gemma Bristow

Berry Burst

They freeze too quickly for astonishment, ripe fruit crashing from the branches into snow.

By morning, all is white except the pulp of six pomegranates.

Palladium

Daylight makes real what she dreamed so long.  Their goddess, their protector, stolen from her dais, and the gates of the city buckling under blows.

Wedding Gown

Nailed into a box of bronze and cedar to hide her disgrace.  Only the waves, as she’s pushed from shore, murmur I will protect you.

Gemma Bristow is a technical writer who tries not to think about software interfaces all the time. Her poetry and prose have appeared in various publications.

Three pieces by Joanna M. Weston

 Temptress

Smoke sifts out through the tent door, a gentle pale drift against deep blue sky. The familiar smell tickles my nostrils and I smile: pot.

Sunshine Sparkle

My skis hurtling down, wind stings my cheeks. A burst of dazzling white, and I’ve fallen, a whirl of poles and skis, blinded by sunshine.

Smoky Canvas

He bought a large red herring, cooked it in butter on his gas stove while texting his girl-friend. The explosion fried his fish and mortgage.

Joanna M. Weston is married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. 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/

Two pieces by Zoë Danielle

Ruby Pumps

I wore them because of the slender length they gave my legs, stretching off into nothingness, while the sharp point of the heel anchored me.

Rock Candy

It reminded me of her; all violent edges but translucent in a way that let me see right through. One bite and I tasted blood.

 

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November

Pandora Black by Rachel Rose Teferet

 

When she turned on the TV, apparitions flew out of the flickering florescent screen.  Screeching and mewing, they made nests in her long black hair.

 

Rachel Rose Teferet enjoys designing websites, creative writing, and goat herding.  Her website: lettersandfeathers.wordpress.com

 

 

 

Blue Glow #7 by Eric Suhem

 

He never felt more purposeful, being used as a polo mallet in the game of the gods, whacking a blue ball over the horizon glow.

 

Eric Suhem dwells in office cubicles and ocean waves. He can be found in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com).

 

 

 

My Poisoned Heart by Samantha Memi

 

He took my loving heart and cooked it in a red wine sauce for his supper. Then we went to bed. Him satiated, me heartless.

 

 

Samantha Memi is the author of Kate Moss and Other Heroines (Black Scat Books).  Her writing can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

 

 

 

Rebellion by Marian Brooks

 

Herby, the bottle-nosed catfish, lost his taste for shit.  Boldly, he swam to the top of the tank, nipping the Angel Fish on the way.

 

Marian Brooks, having recently retired has begun to write short fiction.  She graduated from the U of P (Eng. Lit) and Villanova University (Counseling).   She has been a psychotherapist for many years.  Marian lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.

 

 

 

It’s Raining Men by Bruce Harris

“I’m telling you, that’s why there are manhole covers.” The therapist listened, took notes. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “let’s schedule a regular appointment.”

 

Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman

Freefall by Ruth Newell

At 60, Brenda was content with her life. Until Sven, the young blond ex Swedish Marine sky dive instructor strapped her ass to his pelvis.

Ruth Newell is a freelance writer with a serious slant towards dharma travel. She spent the last 25 years writing a variety of technical documents, marketing material, and website content for Native American tribes, government entities, and corporations. Much of her professional writing pertains to sustainable development (specializing in zero waste technologies), comprehensive and environmental planning, fundraising/financing, and community and business development. She also taught creative writing in a private school for 16 years and is working on a collection of randy love poems as well as a book of short stories. (2shoestravel.blogspot.com)

 

 

 

Long Stem Roses by Jayne Thickett

 

“We’ll meet again, Love.”

They lay on the fresh earth covering his broken body. Cellophane sunlight stung my eyes.  Did you tell her about me?

 

Jayne Thickett lives in the UK and writes every day.  Or so she tells anyone who will listen.

 

 

 

Red Carpet

 

At Target we scan for cruelty free nail polish. She selects a tiny red bottle and says, “This one doesn’t say anything about animals.”

 

Jack Hill lives in Northern California, works in litter abatement, and edits Crossed Out Magazine (www.crossedoutmagazine.org).

September: Happy First Birthday, NS.

Happy first birthday, Nailpolish Stories, my colorful, unpredictable, and growing baby.  To celebrate, I am re-running the first nailpolish story which went live September 5th, 2011.  Thank you, readers and contributors, for your trust, your enthusiasm, and your continued love of small sparkly things.  And for allowing this literary babe to become a toddler. 

Much love,

Nicole Monaghan

Posh Trash by Nicole Monaghan

We wrapped borrowed scarves around our curved hips, as if that were payment.  Mom snapped her gum, looked into our eyes, sorry, asked about lay-away.

Nicole Monaghan is founding and managing editor of Nailpolish Stories and editor of Stripped, A Collection of Anonymous Flash (PS Books 2011).  Her first collection of short fiction, Want, Wound is the 2012 winner of the Burning River Press Annual Fiction Contest and is forthcoming in spring, 2013.  Visit her at http://writenic.wordpress.com

Show Me The Ring by Bruce Harris

The payday was smaller than the town. Whatever. For the first time, I was clean. “You ready?” my trainer asked. I responded with four words.

Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman

 

Three pieces byAnnmarie Lockhart

 

Skin Deep

you made me

promises

like birth marks

or tumors caught early

unrooted

sitting on the

surface, superficial spots

covered

up with powder

or excised clean and quick

Pink Diamond

not a gem

but a base

on the field

beckoning

home after

a high fly

hit over the wall

through Mrs. J’s

bedroom

window

again.

Brandie Alexander

initials carved

on the tree

BT + AG

prom night

tipsy

on peach

schnapps and

midnight

beach

still sweet

on each other

a lifetime later

Annmarie Lockhart is the founding editor of vox poetica, an online literary salon dedicated to bringing poetry into the every day, and the founder of unbound CONTENT, an independent press for a boundless age. A lifelong resident of Bergen County NJ, she lives, works, and writes 2 miles east of the hospital where she was born.

 

Up Front and Personal by Jody

He looks at me, I stare back.

He’s handsome. There’s tension.

I gasp as his hands touch my chest,

then shove me off the bridge.

Jody is a British fitness freak and inveterate procrastinator.  She spends her working days painting her nails, learning new words and never finishing what she . . .

Vampsterdam by Paul Lock

A child harmed?  The culprit found.  A beating pulse.  My claws expand.  A scratch to taste.  My eyes flash red.  And then I gorge… justice. 

Paul is a techno-geek with a love for language, who’s aiming to swap his day job in front of the computer supporting software, for a day job in front of the computer being an author… although he still won’t wear nailpolish J. He can be contacted at ‘paul.lock@outlook.com’.

Three pieces by Chad Greene

Blue My Mind

When her wealthy husband’s affairs turn her world upside down, the old trophy wife who was once a young gymnast starts walking on her hands.

Cuddle by the Fire

After we stomp down the freshly turned dirt with our white cheer shoes, we brush them with our pom-poms and bounce back to the bonfire.

Naked Truth

My husband served me with divorce papers because he thought I had aborted his baby. I signed them, though, because it hadn’t been his baby. 

A graduate of the Master of Professional Writing Program at the University of Southern California, Chad Greene is an assistant professor of English at Cerritos College. His writing has appeared in the Journal of Microliterature, Nanoism, Southern California Review, The Southlander, and the flash-fiction collection Book by Authors. Earlier this summer, he earned an honorable mention in the Ninth Annual Ultra-Short Competition.

 

 

Two pieces by Charlotte Lock

Lucky Lucky Lavender

A four leaf clover.  A horseshoe upright.  A rainbow.  A pot of gold.  So I’ve been told.  Coins and lanterns.  Knocking on wood. Luck.

Hearts And Tarts

A glimpse of sweat.  The heart speeds up.  The smile lit so bright. It all felt right.  A tear of joy.  Somebody to love. You.

Charlotte Lock is from Bradford.  She is thirteen years old.

Two pieces by Erin Garlock

Pink Lingerie

English class is awesome.  I hate the teacher, I hate the subject, but Jenny Heinrich’s pants hang low and I can see her pink panties.

Wild Strawberry

Sunsets on Sundays bring closure.  Another weekend is spent, to our homes we must go.  On my pillow, her hair.  On my mind, our love.

Erin Garlock, having written far too much software using every character on the keyboard except the alphabet, enjoys escaping into the world of real words when the opportunity presents itself.  When not actually at a keyboard, he has a penchant for photographing churches with his wife Colleen.

Shine: An Elemental Trilogy of Summer by M.C. Harris

Silver Elements

He stood alone at the shoreline, looked her way as a slant of sunlight reached her sterling necklace, the silver spark that caught his eye.

Golden Conduct

Intelligence, grace, generosity.  Her friends called him golden… “Golden Boy,” but only in whispers, as if there were shame in perfection, or in recognizing it.

Kinetic Copper

Suntanned wrap of her legs, copper warmth, is what he remembered long after she was gone, having convinced herself he was too good for her.

Well, nobody’s perfect, M.C. figures.  And we grownups know that, don’t we?  We know not to expect perfection from ourselves or from anyone else, because that’s just not fair, is it?  Not fair to ourselves or to anyone else.  Nope.  No, Sir.  Because perfection is impossible, and as grownups, we know not to ask the impossible, right?  In spite of the impending supernova, in spite of every stressful thing that makes us want to roll up into a big baby ball and cry, or makes us want to assume our most-practiced fetal position and just sort of, you know, stop for a couple of minutes, sometimes we just have to be grownups.  Am I right?  Hello?

July

Smoke by Bruce Harris

The trouble began with three words, “Have a light?” There were matches in the ashtray. He grabbed one. Now, he trades cigarettes to stay alive.

Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.

 

Rambunctious by Alina Yudkevich

Heathcliff’s bones were made of rubber, according to his mother. He held his breath when she walked by, so she wouldn’t see his toes wiggle. 

Alina Yudkevich is a 17th grader at the University of Georgia studying English and Film Studies. She works part-time at a particle accelerator laboratory, and will be very embarrassed if she accidentally ends the world. 

 

I’m a Rich Girl by Mitchell Sommers

There’s no “reading of the will.”  That’s just bad movies. Only a check, all my father had. I clutch it, not crying, not yet, anyway.

Mitchell Sommers is an attorney in Lancaster and Ephrata, PA. He is the fiction editor of Philadelphia Stories.  He received his law degree from Penn State, Dickinson School of Law, and his MFA from the University of New Orleans.

Two pieces by Monica Crumback

Eggplant Frost

It’s like Gettysburg behind the garage, thanks to all the frost. Late October. Here come leaves, rakes, then Christmas. I pray it killed the wasps.

Red, Red

It’s not a color so much as a banner painted on her mouth. Nude is useless, like pink and blush. Red says she’s growing up.

Monica Crumback‘s essays have been published in numerous print and online publications, including Brain,Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers, Skirt Magazine, and Vox Poetica.

Three pieces by Lisa Nielsen

in a flash

you were miles gone before anyone noticed.

a flash of light,

a moratorium on what light really means

and shadows turning bitter in your wake

 

decadent

you were too amused to catch on

that I was predisposed to lavish

love on scented lips, to sway my hips

and ask for change

 

strike a pose

head to knees

fingertips to toes,

I spy through my legs like curtains,

and take my breath for granted.

today, forgetting is my conciliation prize.

 

Lisa Nielsen is a single mother living in Staten Island, using poetry to make sense of the world.

 

Varnished by Mary Nelson

Diagnosis for Narcissa: Allergic to her own image. Therefore avoid light. No mirrors. Reaction from Narcissa: Asks for stronger Benedryl. Opens compact and checks make-up.

Mary Nelson is an octogenarian who has been writing ever since college days having published short stories and two historical novels. But she’s not above delving into some humorous challenges such as this one. She believes that without a sense of humor the creative process is minus a powerful asset.

 

Three pieces by David Ellis Dickerson

Pearl Drop

Heartstruck, she fainted in the opera’s loge. Her necklace spilled. Today, children discovering marbles underfoot cup them to their ears to hear “una furtiva lagrima.”

May

In the middle of her jump, she paused, hovering, undecided about whether or not to land. Both milieux have good arguments. For now, air wins.

Carry On

Slide the buckle. Flotation device. In the event. The compartment overhead. Secure yours first. Assist your neighbor. No smoking. Tampering or disabling. Thanks for choosing.

David Ellis Dickerson is a regular contributor to public radio’s “This American Life” and the author of the memoir “House of Cards.” He could not resist this magazine’s concept.

April

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.

February

Two pieces by Bl Pawelek

 

China Glaze White

With teeth, I pull the white sheets tighter around wrists and hands. I don’t want them smaller like Chinese foot binding. I want them gone.

 

Deep Space

I taste my wife’s lips as the dawn sets. God’s love rests in my breast pocket. “Go on.” It does as instructed, my eyes closed.

 

Bl Pawelek is a dad, hiker and writer. He grew up on a small Japanese island (kinda true) and wonders if his Master’s Degree in Literature was worth it (still not sure). There are stories, poems and plenty of art (Google search). The Equation of Constants and Ten Everywhere and the unfirm line. He tries to show mad love to everyone, especially you.

 

 

Skinny Jeans by Brian Baumgart

She holds the line, long fingers on the doorframe, skinny jeans slung low. With pitch and scream, her daughter rails about the lack of fairness.

Brian Baumgart is the Coordinator of Creative Writing at North Hennepin Community College just outside Minneapolis. He holds an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His writing has appeared in or is forthcoming from various journals, including Ruminate, Blue Earth Review, Blood and Honey Review, Tipton Poetry Review, and Blink-Ink.

Two pieces by Laura C. Alonso

Ballet Pink

Pale and lovely, these reliable shoes perform–allowing her to dance around all sorts of things you never see that take place behind the scenery.

Peach Skin

No sweet fruit to nourish the spirit, just a thin film that veils each day–velvet cheeks, never kissed . . . the souls of our unborn children.

Laura C. Alonso‘s work has been published in In Posse Revie, Linnaean Street, 3AM Magazine, SFWP, and other online literary journals. She is the former Senior Editor of Fictionline Press and former Fiction Editor of The God Particle (two sorely missed online venues), and she was  was a finalist in the Santa Fe Writer’s Project’s Literary Awards Program in 2001, 2002, and 2010.

 

 

Dream-Maker  by Joanna M. Weston

She sipped the wine; poured more into the glass. Pictured Tom, his hands on her shoulders, breasts. She lifted her glass again. ‘Dream-maker,’ she whispered.

Joanna M. Weston has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and a line of prayer flags. Her middle-reader, Those Blue Shoes, published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, A Summer Father, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

 

 

 

Lincoln Park After Dark by MM Wittle

“KAFKA ON THE SHORE” confounded two more theatergoers. Terrance sliced the salty, autumn air, “Molly’s?” Sasha tugged his hand. “Yes.”  They craved normalcy and cupcakes. 

MM Wittle is a Professor at Neumann University. MM has an MFA from Rosemont College in Rosemont, PA in Creative Writing.  Her thesis, “Family Guidance” and “The Education of Allie Rose” are two plays that won Thesis of Distinction from RosemontCollege. “Family Guidance” had a reading at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, PA and was selected for honorable mentioned at the 5th Annual Philadelphia Theatre Workshop’s Playwriting Competition. “The Education of Allie Rose” was a finalist in the Philadelphia Ethical Society Playwriting competition.  For the past six years, MM has been a fiction board member of the local non-profit literary magazine, Philadelphia Stories and has written many book reviews and countless blogs for them. MM has also written four book reviews for the creative non-fiction magazine, www.brevitymag.com.

 

 

Copper Coast  by Helen Losse

The lake was drained to fix the bridge.  Sky blue water gave way to brick-red, sun-cracked mud. Copper Coast is a misnomer for what’s yet-to-return.

Helen Losse is a Winston-Salem poet, the author of two full length books, Seriously Dangerous (Main Street Rag, 2011) and Better With Friends (Rank Stranger Press, 2009) and two chapbooks, Gathering the Broken Pieces and Paper Snowflakes.  A reprint of Paper Snowflakes is forthcoming in March 2012 with the title Mansion of Memory.  A part of the proceeds from this chapbook will go to the Joplin (MO) Bright Futures Tornado Fund to help poor children affected by the 2011 tornado in Helen’s hometown.  Her recent poetry publications and acceptances include Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Review, Blue Fifth Review, The Pedestal Magazine, ken*again, Referential,  and Literary Trails of the North Carolina Piedmont.  Helen’s poems have been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and three times for a Best of the Net award, one of which was a finalist.  She is the Poetry Editor for online literary magazine The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.  Helen uses nail polish to paint angel statues, so she looks for colors she wouldn’t actually choose for her nails as well as the ones she would.

 

 

Russian Roulette by Melissa Ann Goodwin

Yolanda loads one bullet, spins the chamber and slides the gun across the table. Grinning, but not in a good way, she says, “You first.”

Melissa Ann Goodwin is author of The Christmas Village.

 

 

Peach Lover by E.C. Norris

He kept her indoors, with dim lights, from flush eyes. A Creole love call shook the walls, window scraped open. Climbing out, winter flayed her. 

E.C. Norris forgoes regular bedtimes, with mixed results. 

 

 

Smoky Canvas by Dan Sicoli

The allure was bending her into shapes.  At first I thought she did it with mirrors, until I realized I had walked into a fog.

Dan Sicoli is an editor with Slipstream Magazine and press.  Car fenders, broken guitar strings, party dresses, and three-legged dogs have often made their way into his writing.  He also oven dries his own garden tomatoes.

Two pieces by Bruce Harris

Dark Room

He removed the closet door and took pictures with his camera. The fire marshal found traces of him and the door, but not the photos.

High Maintenance

She was beautiful, but keeping her home was impossible.  There were constant oil changes, carburetors, timing belts, tune-ups, you name it, and she needed it.

Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.

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