by Allison Brice
I took my breakup quietly, like a pitiful February rain with no lightning.
by Dino Parenti
One unremarkable March day, a man began puncturing random holes in his withered pasture with a post-hole digger.
by Tori Malcangio
In the dark, from my twin bed, I listen to Romy and her latest visitor in the sheets.
by Alle C. Hall
She was eight and at the beach and she felt like a movie star.
by Maureen Simons
They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot. Two little girls, hand in hand, walked soundlessly up Nora’s driveway.
by Tommy Dean
I promised I wouldn’t follow, that I’d have to stay alive, because the people would demand a witness.
by Jordana Jacobs
Inside the ovaries of my husband’s grandmother, Sylvie, resided an egg the size of a grain of sand that would have been Hannah, my brilliant and accomplished mother-in-law.
by Jeff Somers
When she signed the lease and moved her stuff into the place, she knew she was leaning into a decline she’d begun some time before.
by Douglas W. Milliken
Mum died in the last days of October, leaving—among other things—a lot of fall-time chores incomplete.
by Lauren Lynn Matheny
Whatever the color, there had been a balloon. There had been a boy. And there had been a fall.