'On The Other Side of Waking', by Kathryn Ross
The man’s voice broke the silence. Though it was soft it seemed to reverberate throughout the house, as if the vibrations of his vocal cords had become a part of the very air molecules, sending them all ablaze. Rosa stayed frozen in her bed, heart hammering so hard it actually hurt. She tried to listen to what he was saying and think of what she should do at the same time, but it was as if her mind had jammed. Everything seemed fuzzy and slow except for her heart and its persistent thumping. Her underarms felt moist and her skin burned with anxiety. She wanted to run, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to move.
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'The Visit', by Alexandra Grabbe
Strange how the events of a life, once so stratified, shift like pieces of glass, evolving into a memory not of conflict but of harmony.
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'The Clock', by Fernando Ruiz
it was the first time I felt like a real poet. After all these years of trying to figure out what poetry was, what being a poet was all about. During my walk back home I ruminated about writing a philosophical tract on EXIT signs.
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Foxes and Coyotes, by Zach Murphy
The tulips grew apart from each other that Spring. The ground cracked and crumbled in ways that I’d never seen before.
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Not Yet 45 by Melodie Corrigall
As winner of the coveted Billybong Prize for progressive literature, Theresa, not yet 45, should have been on cloud nine. And had her sister not come to the ceremony, young daughter in hand, Theresa having left her worries about her future decision (syllable or one letter?) at home, bask in the glory.
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Getting Off in 1998, by Maxine Stoker
When the angels watch me alone in my room, they see me diagonal across my bed, sheets in a pile at the foot. The angels watch sunlight hum through my sheer curtains, and my bare tits point down my chest like puffy pizza slices….
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Magic Kingdom, by Margo McCall
Last night, it rained oranges: a citrus circus of fruit knocked from branches, sent spinning into orbit, landing hard on the grass. The spindly dwarf citrus planted in the park by Walt himself hurled their burden of golden globes in the four directions: Toontown, Fantasyland, Adventureland, and Tomorrowland. And as the skies wrenched and rocked above, delivering wind—real wind, not something manufactured, some transparent trick of light and sensation—Tamaya was already winding into a state of anticipation of the windfall of sweetness.
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Quitting Time, by Cassidy Lapierre
The students shuffle out of the building, grumbling over their still unfinished work as I organize my area, preparing it for the next worker just four hours later. The clock strikes three am but I wait to lock the doors. If students are still upstairs, possibly packing their things, they’ll be trapped inside until a sleep deprived student in a security guard uniform finds them.
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