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
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.?
Seals by Sid Gustafson
This isn?t a bad story, just a short story about what happened in Oregon. My folks had divorced the year before and Dad flew the coop to Astoria to work on a fishing boat. I rode with my sister on the bus out to spend the summer with him, a twenty-hour trip from Big Timber, Montana. Well, we were on the same bus anyway. She was one of those geeks who wanted to sit in the front and all, and did.
Stripped Clean by Cassandra Dunn
The bed is the biggest problem. It smells like him. Even after stripping it to wash the sheets, as I lay down on the bare mattress waiting for the dryer to finish working its magic, cleansing me of him, I can smell him. It?s a slightly sweet, powdery smell, laced with a hint of something masculine
The Shoebox by: William Gaughan
The heaviness of the shoebox reminded me that it no longer housed its original contents; the fine sheet of dust, evidence of its solitude.
The Loser by Arthur Mackeown
I’m not as forgetful as I seem, you know. I never lose things by accident, not really, just accidentally on purpose. I ‘lose’ them on buses, in shops, on park benches, even
- « Previous Page
- 1
- …
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- …
- 18
- Next Page »