âHarry Johnson. Harry Wang. Just Wang. You know, wang. The little soldier. Willie. Captain Winkie, One eyed monster. Of course, Cock. Thatâs obvious, but he gives me theâwhuddayuh call it, the genealogy of it. Says, âRoosters is known for getting up in the morning.â Wink wink, he does, like Iâm …Read More »
Iâd got the call at about six-thirty the previous evening; Sunday – during âSongs of Praiseâ. Not that I was watching it. Content continues after advertisement âHow quickly can you get down to London tonight?â âTonight? I canât get there tonight; the last train has gone.â âOk, tomorrow, then?â âErr… …Read More »
I hit end on my phone and think of what I should to do next. On the one hand, I should feel devastated and begin pour my eyes out. I should collapse on my bed and not move for the rest of the night. That would be nice, but it …Read More »
Please welcome Louie Cronin back to WU today! Louie’s debut novel, Everyone Loves You Back, has been named a semi-finalist for the 2017 VCU Cabell First Novelist Award and a finalist for an Indie Excellence Award. A little more about her: For 10 years,Â Louie CroninÂ (a.k.a. âCronin the Barbarianâ)Â served as Car …Read More »
» Build a Memory. Build a Bear. by Bryan Currie Short stories, flash fiction and creative writing online.
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 »
One of the best things Iâve done for myself as a writer and speaker Â is study improv. Not stand-up comedyâthink of the short-form improv show Whose Line Is It Anyway? Thereâs also another kind, long-form, that Iâve studied this year. Â Long-form improv particularly lends itself well to novel writing as …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 »