Fiction

Written By: Adara Schwartz Each night, my husband sleeps on his back with his hands crossed over his chest, as though he is in a coffin.

Written By: Martin Taulbut It was almost nine when Linda stepped off the bus at Holyrood. Shivering, she buttoned up her blue serge jacket and strode to the studded wooden gates.

Written By: Spencer Rohloff What a lovely grave I’d dug! The ground was soft from last night’s rain and came up easy by the spadeful. Springtime fragrance filled my nose and all I smelt was sweetness. I would have enjoyed this more if not for the two boys prattling behind me.

Written By: Luke Barron The Body lies still.  It lies in its grave, rotting and fraying in its flesh, soil and muck soaking up the spoils of its decay as it stays lifeless and deceased...

Written By: Patrick Joel Quinif “Oh, babe, you’ve got…” Tom pointed to the spot on her neck. “Is that a scratch? You’ve gotta be careful about that.” He turned his vacant gaze back to his burrito, took a too-big bite, and stared at the television, bits of rice clinging to his greasy beard.

Written By Kaitlin Milliken-Flohr She used to brush my hair. Mom running my fine strands between boar bristles, ever so gently. In the morning, she twisted sections into braids. At night, she dragged her fingers through to undo her work. We rarely touched.