Fiction

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.

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.

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.”

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…”