by Meg Pokrass
Probably the weirdest and most wonderful report of all was that made by the elderly Ms. Margarita Polkraski on June 8th, 1993.
by Tommy Dean
We’re in the car again. Dad drunk and playing with the radio from the passenger’s side, his knuckles bruised and swelling. He takes his anger out on the walls.
by Goldie Goldbloom
On either side of the halls of Heaven and Hell are the great glass-fronted cases displaying the glories of this world.
by Anna Mantzaris
I started small. Bite-size cookies, mini brownies, tiny tarts and hand pies a 4-year old could cup like a fragile butterfly.
by Sean Gill
The boy begins by saying he has killed a spider, a Goliath among spiders, a monster dangling from the ceiling on a strand of gleaming silk, the grossest thing he has ever seen.
by Abbie Barker
Sometime before dawn, my son climbs into my bed. “The bat woke me,” he says.
by Laurel Miram
Pale yellow pads are best. They contrast well with black Sharpies. No one can miss a bumblebee.
by Christina Litchfield
We meet on a Monday. You hate Mondays because the weekend means car accidents and those are often tricky and unpleasant.
by Mark Schimmoeller
The wild plums are blooming. They have bloomed every April since the man moved into the woods.
by Tommy Dean
I might as well admit that I’m sinking. You know the joke about lifeguards drowning? Rip currents don’t care who they plunge to the bottom.