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Stories Poems Essays

window

The Window

The boy pulls his chair up to the window. He does this every Wednesday night to watch the woman in the pink towel in the apartment across the tiny alley.

Knitting needles

The Needles

I relax my hands and remember that, when we work together, we know what to do. They guide me to the right place without fail, and slip in easily with a sigh.

Gelato and Frost

It is a sweltering night the first time I am unfaithful. One of those late July nights where the city clings to you. Hollywood is on fire.

Poetry and Healing with Roger Sippl

The Sweater: The doctors tell me the main tumor in my chest is the size of a softball. She uses a double strand of yarn and thin knitting needles…

In memoriam - candle in hands

In Memoriam

“Alison, Daddy died today,” spoke my mom. She had positioned me on a wicker-backed bar stool in the center of my kitchen…

Incomplete Woman

Incomplete Woman

My last partner threw me away after my legs wouldn’t open for him. He didn’t explicitly say that of course; he said something about a lack of connection.

Prisoner

The Prisoner: Free at Last

Read the short story, The Prisoner: Free at Last, by Phil McNichol: “Quite often I fell to my knees and beat my fists against that block.”

Jeremy Luke Hill

Julia’s Garden

Short story by Jeremy Luke Hill: “He was backing away, his hands held out in front of him to ward off whatever it was that was happening before his eyes…”