The House in the Pines
The constant buzzing of cicadas like high-voltage power lines is one of the things I’ll remember most about this little house in the pine forest. Maybe because day and night it reminds me I’m not...
View ArticleA Map of Kex’s Face
It is not down in any map; true places never are. — Herman Melville A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea. — Honore de Balzac How does one begin to map a face?...
View ArticleAt Play
We wake up the morning after a game with scratches from needle bushes and other aches and pains. The good hiding spots are the uncomfortable ones because a seeker won’t try to tag anyone beneath the...
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2014 Featured Fiction Writers
January: Michael J. Seidlinger February: Nina McConigley March: Joseph Riippi April: Juliet Escoria May: Kate Durbin June:...
View ArticleThe Pastoral View
I watched a tractor some distance off as it backed up to a large round hay bale just inside an open gate, spearing it firmly at its center. The farmer drove out of the enclosure and dismounted to close...
View ArticleThe Moon Is Dead
The day they pulled Paulie Sisto’s body out of the bayou, he came over to ask me for a slice of watermelon. Like he didn’t know how I wasn’t allowed knives. My momma had carved the fruit into two...
View ArticlePromises
End of message. The robotic female voice of my answering machine falls silent once more and I find my fingers hovering over the key pad. Over the button that says repeat. “Marley?” The voice of my...
View ArticleThe Girl From Thorn Point Road
My husband hides the newspaper on the morning of Jerry Banner’s execution, like suddenly it’s 1957 and the DuBois Courier-Express is my only source of information. “I’ll have to call and complain...
View ArticleFrozen River
Tabby’s ex used to beat her real hard. One night was particularly bad. He drove off half-lit from the house, lost his pay at the reservation casino, came back smelling of Seagram’s and Swishers. When...
View ArticleThe Empty Wicker Chair
He said in passing, so long ago, something like this: “The bright fabrics swimming against the bodies of the pretty women on the streets seem dull rags. One watches as their skin peels away in layers,...
View ArticleAt Your Own Risk
Our room at the Sheraton sits on the fourteenth floor, and through the window we can see waves, and a thin strip of sand rainbowed in rented umbrellas, which, from here, look like the paper ones...
View ArticleA Map of Kex’s Face
It is not down in any map; true places never are. — Herman Melville A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea. — Honore de Balzac How does one begin to map a face?...
View ArticleAt Play
We wake up the morning after a game with scratches from needle bushes and other aches and pains. The good hiding spots are the uncomfortable ones because a seeker won’t try to tag anyone beneath the...
View ArticleClik here to view.
2014 Featured Fiction Writers
January: Michael J. Seidlinger February: Nina McConigley March: Joseph Riippi April: Juliet Escoria May: Kate Durbin June:...
View ArticleThe Pastoral View
I watched a tractor some distance off as it backed up to a large round hay bale just inside an open gate, spearing it firmly at its center. The farmer drove out of the enclosure and dismounted to close...
View ArticleThe Moon Is Dead
The day they pulled Paulie Sisto’s body out of the bayou, he came over to ask me for a slice of watermelon. Like he didn’t know how I wasn’t allowed knives. My momma had carved the fruit into two...
View ArticlePromises
End of message. The robotic female voice of my answering machine falls silent once more and I find my fingers hovering over the key pad. Over the button that says repeat. “Marley?” The voice of my...
View ArticleThe Girl From Thorn Point Road
My husband hides the newspaper on the morning of Jerry Banner’s execution, like suddenly it’s 1957 and the DuBois Courier-Express is my only source of information. “I’ll have to call and complain...
View ArticleFrozen River
Tabby’s ex used to beat her real hard. One night was particularly bad. He drove off half-lit from the house, lost his pay at the reservation casino, came back smelling of Seagram’s and Swishers. When...
View ArticleThe Empty Wicker Chair
He said in passing, so long ago, something like this: “The bright fabrics swimming against the bodies of the pretty women on the streets seem dull rags. One watches as their skin peels away in layers,...
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