Brady’s truck tires screeched as he took the corner into his sister’s subdivision a little too fast. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry. He had no idea if Lexi’s crazy questions had any root in reality, but the uneasiness in his gut made him feel sick. He had learned over the years that,…
Month: September 2018
Issue 13.2 – Nonfiction
As I stared at the dark gray wall before me, I imagined this home’s listing Realtor standing here with his clients, watching their confused expressions as they considered the riddle I now pondered. He’d know exactly what they were going to say—the same thing everyone who looked at this house must say. “Why did they…
Issue 13.2 – Fiction
Holly was taking her work home with her. She had been for a while. It wasn’t much at first, not as it was now. It came on with a subtlety, gentle as late summer turning to early autumn. Nothing in particular announced it, nothing triggered it as far as she could tell. It was a…
Issue 13.2 – Poetry
Pulling into the driveway, memories make me gasp for air. Can anyone know the love that happened here? The maple tree out front where I discovered how to make noses out of its seedlings, and felt carefree enough to jump in its leaves, stands exquisitely rigid demonstrating its stability. Its branches reaching for the…
Serial – Little River: Vol 2 – Ch 7
There was an almost hypnotic quality to painting. Lexi pushed the roller up and down the wall, rolled more paint onto it, moved over a few inches, and did it all again. The repetition was mind-numbing, which was exactly what she appreciated about it. Her mind was numb, but the muscle in her forearm was…
The Little Things – Story Teller
Story Teller if I could say what was in my heart I would fill the night with stars writing stories across the sky Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and…
Issue 13.1 – Nonfiction
The clouds looked thick like a thousand wet cotton balls glued together in the sky. My brother and I drove five hours through the Tennessee cold to arrive at an open field with a barn-style home in the front. He flicked the last of his cigarette out of the window of our shared Honda Accord…
Issue 13.1 – Fiction
Bus and I were surprised, to say the least, when our parents told us we would be staying the weekend at our grandfather’s ranch while they took a short trip. Usually, we had to beg just to ride along with Grandpa and Dad on their trips to the ranch, and never before had we spent…
Issue 13.1 – Poetry
Vacation means 12 hours in a park we know by heart. One churro, one hot pretzel, one Mint Julep sweating through a paper cup. The first night of vacation means convenience store pizza on Fifth Avenue, means the man behind the counter with wax-white skin and eyes filmed over like a butterfly…
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