Short Stories
At the ripe age of 21, Ariel lives in failure of that first step. She’s filing papers now, an administrative assistant at the Dropbox headquarters in the heart of Silicon Valley. She watches the computer engineers check in and out behind the front desk on the third floor, and all day this plagues her with a sense of inadequacy. She thinks about her upbringing in an upper-middle class
A middle-aged guy in a dark jacket and a patterned shirt sitting at a bar, a woman of a similar age in a deep purple dress walks over and sits next to him.
“O. Henry” was the pen name adopted by William Sydney Porter. He began his short story career by contributing Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking to McClure’s Magazine in 1899.
The sun sizzled the soft tanned skin of Alison Bailey, as she lay comfortably on her favorite azure beach towel; the soft gurgle of the ocean tide lulling her into a peaceful slumber. The beach was a place that Alison visited when felt the world shatter around her, when the gratifying constants of her
My brother speaks to me in a hushed tone, as if the shaking echo of a louder voice might break the sight in front of us. We sit on top of the tallest hill in our plain Midwestern subdivision, surveying the damage
The Magic Spot: A story inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s “The Melancholy of a Beautiful Day” He lay in the grassy median of a road which bounded one side of a large inner-city university. How he had come there, nobody knew. From his looks, though, his path had been a cruel one. His body showed the signs of a life wracked by insupportable pain. His face was hollow and sallow,
Strutters’ Ball by Barry Basden Cleaning out my father’s things I found an old black and white photo, one I’d never seen before. Hidden away all these years. The photo was taken in some kind of hall, a gentlemen’s club perhaps. Joyless carpet, somber wainscoting, a small mirror propped on its rail. Patterned wallpaper and…
Escape by Murdock O’Mooney “We got to get out of here,” I tell her. She tells me she knows and that she’s waiting for the right time. “You saw what he did to Johnny- he’s got a black eye and fat lip… he’s all beat up.” She says that it’s none of our business. I…
Patrick Hanford is a short story author and has been published in Heater Magazine and Elite Critiques Magazine. He is a member of Caprock Writer’s Association and has published on their website.
She said, “This is crazy.” She looked at me. “Isn’t this crazy?”
I shrugged. I thought that, sure, maybe it was a little crazy. But I thought it was exciting, too. Crazy or not, I thought it might be crazier if we parted ways and never saw each other again.
David Lohrey grew up in Memphis. His poetry can be found in Otoliths, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Easy Street and Quarterday. In addition, recent poems
Gone but Not Forgotten by Carol M. Gore. Carol lives in Victoria, BC, Canada, and when not writing, work in labour relations for the provincial government.
In her dream, she sat motionless on the couch and watched the T.V., turned to mute. She couldn’t have told you what was on. She wondered what he was doing at this moment.
While the apartment phone rings over and over, the couple cooks awkwardly trying not to involve eye contact with each other. Her shinny blue eyes are fixed on the onion she is chopping,
I was assembled anonymously according to traditions. I fail to realize my identity. My memory is cyclically deleted. I’m a symbiotic specialized adaption for systematic kinetic force. I have been eaten and I’ve consumed anything radiating energy forces