Authors protest Amazon’s e-book return policy
A new option for copyright disputes
Freelance is no longer free
That’s one way to research a murder mystery
Tulip Tears

Tulip Tears

by Deborah Clearman
When lightning strikes the tulip poplar, five hundred years of leaf lifting crashes into splinter wood, and several notables roll over in their graves.
Family

Family

by Cezarija Abartis
Outside the kitchen window, squirrels scattered the seed from the birdfeeder Paula’s dad had set up. The seeds gleamed in the sun like drops of water.
Dragging Raven Lake

Dragging Raven Lake

by Kevin Couture
The men waited on the shore while Susan, (whose son they searched for), made coffee on the tailgate of a half-ton.
The Imminence of Flight

The Imminence of Flight

by Chris Connolly
At the supermarket I see a young mother gently weeping in the cereal aisle. Her baby watches her curiously, possibly stumped by this reversal of roles, or too young to understand.
A Boyfriend History in 10 Flavors

A Boyfriend History in 10 Flavors

by Laura Golden Bellotti
Our ten-year age difference seemed vast to me, not to him. It was lunch—our daily lunches at the small French restaurant across the street from our office—that bridged the gap.
Guitar Lessons

Guitar Lessons

by Roxanne Lynn Doty
If anybody follows me call 911. I live in apartment 12 but don’t go there if somebody stalks me. I should stay in a public place like Taco Bell or Walgreens.
Down in the Station

Down in the Station

by Seth Sawyers
In the station a black woman with thick braids played the cello. I thought she was good, but I don’t know if she really was good, because what do I know about the cello?
My Mother Has a Cult Following

My Mother Has a Cult Following

by Siobhan Adcock
My mother has a cult following. It’s not as big as my father’s, because her band hasn’t sold as many records as his.
Rabbit Suit

Rabbit Suit

by Julia Lynn Rubin
When I look at the sky, I don’t see color. The man in the rabbit suit doesn’t either. I know this because I asked him one summer, when the air smelled like burning pavement.
Superman

Superman

by Emile DeWeaver
A mother-of-pearl mirror-stand, rolled rugs from Damascus, and other brick-a-brac from when I went through my I’m-gay-but-proud-to-be-Syrian bullshit fill the shadows in my garage.
It all began around a campfire…

Beautiful language

is meant to be heard as well as read, and in fact words were vocalized eons before they were ever committed to clay or parchment. Storytelling began around campfires. We seek prose and poetry that continue the tradition.

Contributor Spotlight:

by Judith Waller Carroll

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Open Contests

Best Writing Contests of 2022, recommended by Reedsy

Lascaux Vol 9

by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review