I walked through the tall oak doors, entering the dark library. I stopped at the front desk, and knocked on the surface, vainly hoping that someone would be there
Author: Every Writer
Richard Edwards has a BFA in Creative Writing and Journalism from Bowling Green State University and an M.S. in Education from the University of Akron. Managing editor of Drunk Duck, poetry editor for Prairie Margins, reporter for Miscellany, Akron Journal, Lorain Journal, and The BG News. He has also worked as a professional writer and editor in the medical publishing industry for several years. For the last 15 years Richard has also taught literature and writing at the secondary and post-secondary levels. He works much of the time with at-risk students.
The Biggest Dance by David Kerr
We burn the elephant and cow and lion every year, then we build them again the following dry season, after all the dances. We perform the Big Dance to remember the way humans
Automobile Slide by Natasha Ganes
Log onto www.mapquest.com or fire up your GPS:
Start in Michigan.
Rush through route Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona to avoid possible Rocky Mountain winter storms while parents follow in moving van.
End in California
Apple Care by Kiley Reid
That was the best I?d felt since we?d been together, waiting for the crash. Snow whipped past us as we started to reach 50 mph. I turned on a song I knew he hated. I took my hand out from under his and opened my window to feel the flurries slap my face. He asked me what the hell I was doing, and that?s when we heard it.
Sandra by Sue Roff
Sandra walked along the deserted paths of the beach front in the late afternoon of early autumn. In the car park there was one
Free Writing Course from EWR!
We are announcing a new services from EWR. It seems like a natural progression for us to now offer free writing courses from EWR.
Seconds in China by Geoffrey Heptonstall
Dust has settled in the empty room where mice have found habitation among the spiders and spectres of empires lost in a game of chance. Once – who knows when – someone left a handprint in the dust.
The Boy by Aarif Khan
It was a while before he spoke. With apparent unease, he strung words and uttered them in greater reluctance. The bonfire gleamed in his eyes, and each word slashed the air with a cold vibe, demanding absolute attention and a silence spread amongst the group.
Weathervane by Christina Isler
Weathervane by Christina Isler “Honey, the package arrived!” I called to my husband. There was no pause in the typing coming from his study. Irritated, I turned my attention to the package before me. Turning back the four rectangles of cardboard, I peered inside. Lifting it out, the light played along the polished copper, each…
The Price of Becoming a Writer by Mahendra Waghela
Born in socialist flavored independent India of ?68 . My earliest conscious memory: I was two and half, a soft bundle of flesh and bones, when I met with a nasty fire accident in the kitchen. Me lying on the rough coir mattress; my tummy swollen like a tender football because of the internal burns
Me and My Friend by Nanette L. Avery
The heart shaped planchette that had once been tossed into the box along with the other memorabilia lies before me with its feet up like a dried cockroach. Yellow and brittle as an autumn leaf, it’s marvelously intact considering the age
Smoke Signals by Karen Preston
The girl was naked; her back leaned against the birch tree like she was part of it. Blonde pieces of hair were turned white by the moon. You watched her from the old convertible your dad had given you; it’s top was stuck down behind the back seat.
The Enemy by M.H.D.S. Dharshanapriya
It was a gloomy day, prevailing clammy weather throughout. After a hard days work, I made my best effort to find a seat in the bus, by pushing one or two passengers out of my way, with my weight.
A Tale of Hope by Veleka Georgieva
A Tale of Hope by Veleka Georgieva a short story that begins: Some years ago a baby was born. It was a girl and they named it Hope. Hope had two parents…
All Behind Him by Giorgio Montanari
?I?m glad it?s spring at last,? he thought walking through the sacristy door and towards the altar. ?People drop like flies during the cold months.?