Thereâs a copper-toned Queen in New York Harbor who, until recently, happily greeted visitors to the shores of our promised land. She now sits on Ellis Island politely checking green cards and work visas, reminding the huddled masses to wipe their feet on the way in, worried they might stay …Read More »
The blizzard commenced in earnest sometime between the appetizer and desert. My wife and I emerged into a snow-globe world where the flakes came down in clots as large as rabbit tails. The fresh snow erased the imperfections in a still-transforming area of the south Loop, painting the cracked sidewalks …Read More »
She sipped at her coffee. Black. No sugar. Sour. Lipstick mark: Red; Number 58 – Dark Wine. The taste barely registered. A creak in the floorboards: her husbandsâ feet. Size nine shoes. Black. Heavily polished. Tightly laced. Content continues after advertisement âHow long have you been up?â She stared through …Read More »
I.His hands touched her breasts but they weren’t really there. See, she believed that the human touch could evaporate without reason and beyond the possibilities of eternity. But, when she told this to others, they refused to look at the marks on her breasts. But didn’t want you want to …Read More »
» I Saw My Mother Holding a Baby Corpse by Jason D. Hill Short stories, flash fiction and creative writing online.
I watched my mother, once, holding a corpse the size of a honey baked ham. Late evening. Corner of our old street. From my seat on a cloud I recognized its form; watched its tissues dissolve like blood sausage on her just-manicured nails; the spoils of its bloody clots lingering …Read More »
My legs feel heavy and I want to go home. My ass is numb, and I want to go home. Alcohol and nicotine pulsing through my brain, and I want to go home. I wonder if anyone’s ever overdosed on nicotine. It seems unlikely but not impossible. I’ve been sitting …Read More »
No one congratulates the understudy; the role given to the individual who could not make the cut for the lead. Just right for the part, but not as right, not as good, as the chosen actor. An acceptable backup; but not ‘the one’. Sure, while their name is printed in …Read More »
When the preachers came, they embraced you. When they entered your home, they smiled pious smiles. Then they said in reverent tones, ‘Let us pray for your forgiveness.’ But you were unable to tell them that it was your husband who had sinned. Content continues after advertisement When you knelt, …Read More »
» The Man-Playing Guitar and the Guitar-Playing Man by Simon Thalmann Short stories, flash fiction and creative writing online.
A guitar who had learned to play the man decided he wanted to form a band. He gathered up his courage and called a guitar-playing man and asked him if he would be interested in joining him. Content continues after advertisement — Hmm, said the guitar-playing man. So youâre a …Read More »
I sit in my small, one bed roomed flat above Sebastian’s Nightclub. Below, music throbs. Outside, drunks shout and brawl. Nightly, police sirens wail, disturbing my sleep, disturbing my peace. Daily, shoppers and office workers dash to and fro unaware of the constant disturbance that occurs well after the stores …Read More »