Bed And Breakfast Morning | by Matthew Brennan
“Good morning folks! We’re Bob and Jo Parsons, and we’re from North Carolina. Where are you all from?” “Hi. Mark; my wife Rachel. From Boston.” “Lovely to meet you both. Our hostess said that both of the coffee pots are the same, regular.” […] “Here’s some biscuits for you. Would you all like ham with...
The Hit | by Matthew Brennan
From behind the bar, Luisa and I watched the man in the cream suit and sunglasses sitting at a table on the cafe’s streetside patio. Though alone, he had ordered a French press with two mugs. He sipped from his; the other sat empty across from him. After sitting for about fifteen minutes, he checked...
Interview With A Shy Poet In Advance Of His Fame | by Raymond Keen
Can you tell us something about your family? Yes. My mother likes cats and dogs. So, what stands behind the philosopher-poet —- his mother? No, his mother’s philosopher-poet. In your poetry, why don’t you pay more attention to the outer world? Because it’s cold. It’s very cold. And I don’t ski. Where do you go...
The Last Showing Of Po Spooner | by Robert E. Petras
According to his son, Angle, Po Spooner had suffered 151 heart attacks, but it was the sugar that finally got him. Wearing a black T-shirt with bold white letters reading “TNA the true genetic code,” Angle stood over Po inside his casket, staring at his favorite NASCAR T-shirt, at an empty Mail Pouch foil, at...
We Couldn’t Keep Up | by Rudy Melena
When I was ten-years-old, my mama came home from the mental clinic. Standing on tiptoes, I leaned over the sink and drew aside the kitchen window curtain. The ‘53 Ford pulled up in the muddy alley, and I watched my dad go to the passenger side to lift out my lifeless mama. My dad didn’t...
Walk Away | by Andrea Janov
With the smell of dead leaves and the biting wind hinting at coming snow I knew I was home. Though New York City is only one hundred and fifty miles east, it never has that fragrance of late fall like Pennsylvania – the sweet mold of decaying leaves, the scent of back to school, and...
You Name is Tattooed On My Heart | by Andrea Janov
We sit on my parents faded couch his hand rests on his worn black jeans. I touch his wrist he turns his palm I run my finger over dirt engrained calluses fresh scrapes half healed scabs I push my fingers between his. He closes his hand tightly around mine looks at our hands I really...
Hey Suburbia | by Andrea Janov
Graffiti scars. $100 reward for information August 10, 1998 The photo in the newspaper bright blue and yellow tag spray painted on the side of the concession stand at the Swoyersville Little League Field August 9, 1998 We were sitting in the front yard, Hey, we have something to show you. You drove us...
The Confession | by Stephen V. Ramey
I’m sorry I can’t come to the party. Mom found my jar, you know, the one I mentioned, the one with my spit? Once she figured out what it was she kind of schizzed out. She made me go to this therapist who asked me about school and how it is at home and whether...
