On edge of a razor-guarded campus, Marigolds tower to meet drooping pines. Though unaware as cheerful children, Dry Texas earth spells death for them both.
Displayed within, life's moments extrapolated, tangible anguish, remnants of sorrow. With haphazard intent, encapsulated vestiges scattered...
He guides his 1950 Massey-Harris tractor out the battered grey doors of the old barn. The rusted hinges of the barn door match the faded paint...
Today is the first day of my last period. I know because in three weeks, when my body prepares to do it again, I will run into a man with a knife.
A newly-appointed primary school teacher got off the rattletrap at the pukka road and headed on foot to the village that nestled among the citrus orchards...
Working the Fire Line – Fierce Fiction by Alan MacLeod – October 21, 2018 The first time I saw her we were on the fire line digging a ditch to
A Jeep has sat in front of our house for a month, its red boxy body catching my eye every time I walk outside. Whoever left it, placed it equal distance...
I have learned life is short, and dying takes forever. For nearly seventy years, I’ve been a whirling dervish. I ran to and from various aspects of a life filled with perpetual...
When my daughter Sela was three, she invented a story about Bob Marley and Frederick Douglass. I put her allegory in the “Afterthoughts” of...
Plot as a literary term is defined as the structure of events that make up the movements of a story through time; characters and settings are...
My mother saw the raccoon first. She was chopping veggies in front of an open window, hoping for a breeze because it was August, and already hot and sticky...
I sat alone at the Shanghai Dumpling King on 34th Avenue in the same seat she always sat in. I came on a Thursday afternoon the way she always did...
Submit your stories of migration and/or your sense of place, of home or lack of, and your empathy to the plight of migrants around the world.
Fifty feet of nylon line and a milk jug stretched across the bay. Twenty hooks, mostly trebles, hung waiting; chicken liver and dough balls luring them in.
To your villa they come-- the sketchbooks, the cameras, parade past your clay mugs and plates, black lace mantillas that covered your legs, white wooden bed...
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