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Chocolate and Flowers by Lizzy Leaman Waronker
Jess came back tonight. He was wearing a new jacket when he came
through the door. He opened the closet and hung it up inside. He
didn’t say a word about it. It was a nice coat, too... Two Women on a Bus by Marcia Fairbanks
That regal old grande dame, Boston's South Station, was wearing a chin strap of orange
plastic mesh to keep it from drooping into the Big Dig tunnel construction. I joined the
line of bus passengers destined for Cape Cod... Another Weary Disciple by James Jakimowicz
Four o'clock in the morning has nothing to do with serenity. The gong that wakes you mingles with the rushing of blood to your ears. The confusion intensifies as you attempt your feet and your hair catches the mosquito net. Deep inside, you realize that the monks have it wrong... The Opposite End of the House by James A. Roberts, II
I’m staring at the kitchen floor. Like a broken doll, I stoop over the wooden surface, my spine jackknifed, my hands dangling. Having just used the sink, I examine the floor for water—drips that may have sloshed over the edge of the basin, drops that may have fallen from my hands... Ten Years, Ten Minutes by A. K. Cotham
I met you one Friday night at the beginning of our freshman year in college, when you and Kevin came to take Melanie out on the town. We were all gathered in Melanie and Kasey's dorm room. We were giving Melanie, fretting as usual, conflicting advice about what to wear when you and Kevin arrived... The Essex Street Garden by Wayne Scheer
On a warm Brooklyn weekend, near the end of the 1955 school term, Wayne, a
skinny ten-year old boy with glasses that kept slipping down his nose, heard a
noise he had never heard before. He had grown used to the sounds of honking
automobiles, whining police sirens and the calls of neighboring women hanging
their laundry on clotheslines that connected like umbilical cords the
neighborhood apartment buildings... Another Summer's End by Sharon Cupp Pennington
On the wide-planked porch of my grandfather's house, I savor an invigorating
breath of country air. No smog, no stench from paper mills, or refineries
belching grimy steam to irritate the sinuses or coat the throat with cloying
fumes... Love Writ Large by Jamie Pearson
Francisco's name appeared first. Scrawled in bubble letters with a heart-dotted "i," but respectfully smaller than the adjacent No War on Iraq, it caught my eye. I paused, and for one stroller-pushing moment, I yearned for the exquisite breath-snatching nausea of new love. The consuming adolescent compulsion to claim one's object in capital letters and permanent ink... |
