Fiction

Category

He Was Beautiful by Ron Moore

When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.

Fiction: A Life Like This by Laura E. Smith

A new short story by Laura E. Smith

Must-read

Five Poems by Virginia Bell

Meuse I Pron.: /ˈmjuz/ a depression leftin the grass, a shallowbowl, or profound, a gap in the hedgethe hog trespassed, in otherwords, not the animal but the space...

Two Poems by Ann-Marie Maloney

The Marrow of My Bones There is a hurt that runs so deep within the marrow of my bones, Twisted lies Deceiving smile Words dipped in scalding...

Two Poems by Maggie Rosen

My Milk Glass Mother You were my thunderstorm mother. You were my abalone mother. You were my milk glass mother. You reveled in flaws. You turned an opaque...