She lay on the bed crying, the tears wouldn’t cease. The world was so god-damn unfair. She had gone to bed two hours earlier in an attempt to escape...
“We think the chance of change is good but so far we haven't recorded anything concrete.”
Sophia immerses the podgy quail into a pot of hot water and then starts plucking them. Tufts of brown feathers blanket the water. She then cuts their heads
He could hear it. Slowly, cautiously advancing .Building up pressure slowly increasing ever slightly. And then all at once exploding like a cyclone, vibrating,
I was home on break. Freezing rain came and went. The cold, however, crossed its arms and chained itself to everything.
Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the school bus took me around for years. I can see in the headlights the wildflowers ringing...
“A boy--good job, Mom!” My doctor’s baritone penetrates the delivery room’s soundscape: sighing vacuum pumps, a chorus of medspeak, beeping monitors, all punctuated by
Paul Finnigan is a short story writer from Ottawa, Canada. He has a collection of short fiction that has been published in both Canada and the United States
I need to know if Di Fara has the best pizza in New York.
That day when we first kissed was a rainy Tuesday. We met for an innocent coffee while dark clouds built over the city. We talked about everything,