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,
The mourners dispersed from the graveside in groups of twos and threes. They paused to pay their condolences to the family, some shaking hands
It is louder than a train passing only inches from our faces. It splashes in our ears, surrounding our eardrums. Its continuous roar is like nothing else
Danny fixated his eyes upon a bursting star of grandiose fireworks, sparkling with eye-catching colors outside the bedroom window. The reflective waters outside captured
"Step into the light, I dare you," Marshall said as he struggled to contain his laughter.
It was the red that drew my eye as soon as I came through the door. I quickly looked away and walked past to a vacant table.