Camp Dogwood serves the kids ice cream for breakfast. Strawberry, Chocolate, or Vanilla. Your choice. While they were supervising their kids, Scout (counselors are not allowed real names at camp to avoid there being 16 Sarahs) elbows Bucket (actually named Sarah) and points rather obviously at Salt (Jax) being escorted out of the office at […]Read More Prose: “Salt” by Campbell Sharpe
“All right Girl Scouts, lineup!” Robbie calls the patrols to attention. Here, he is The Law. He commands twenty boys, and they listen. Lineup he shouts, and they fall into three perfect lines. The all-powerful Senior Patrol Leader. These aren’t Cub Scout meetings, where parents bring cookies and juice boxes for the kiddies. Parents who […]Read More Prose: “Asses Up” by Jonathan Green
Monday—8 a.m. Customers stand in line. They wonder what is taking so long. Come on, they say in low tones, all I want is a simple cup of coffee—or not so simple, depending on how much of a pain in the ass said customer is. They mumble and mutter and complain loud enough to be […]Read More Prose: “monday morning” by wood reede
Friday, 2/21: I have decided to conduct an experiment. In order to answer the gravest of questions, one requires the surest of methods. Before I begin (and before you begin to read my report) it is necessary to lay out a few “ground rules,” so to speak. An experiment requires strict parameters in order to […]Read More Prose: “An Experiment” by Hallin Burgan
My parents must be trying to kill me. The car windows are closed, and Dad is smoking a pipe, the tobacco is cherry scented, and Mom puffs away on her L&Ms. The smoke makes me sick and I want to throw up. They won’t crack the windows because they’re afraid dirt will get in the […]Read More Prose: “The finish Line” by Louise Turan
Rain fell all morning but I decided on a walk anyway. I don’t recall precisely what time I left my flat, it may have been close to noon, but I donned my yellow mackintosh, my Wellingtons, and fetched my peacock from his gated pen. An iridescent blue and green beauty, his train blazed with gold-rimmed […]Read More Prose: “Peacock Weather” by Salvatore Difalco
Asters Ethan and Sharlene sat on the twin Adirondack chairs on the porch, his fingertips resting on her wrist as they gazed at the violent New England Asters and purple black-eyed Susans, which spread out like a cornfield all the way to MacArthur’s apple orchard. Above the flowers, the setting sun painted the clouds peach. […]Read More Prose: “Asters” by Justin gu
The bottle of Jameson shattered into fine green needles and sprayed across the Connellys’ white kitchen floor. Conversations went so quiet that Thomas’s whispered “shit” could be heard across the room. […]Read More Prose: “Deidre” by Heather Rutherford
Owen stood in the boxing ring in the back of Bichelmayer’s Meat Market, using the edge of a turnbuckle to press the swollen flesh away from his eye. Breath came ragged through his teeth and exhalation whistled through a crack in his nose. His hearing, gone, blasted by the cacophony of the crowd. […]Read More Prose: “Welterweight” by Nick Avalos
Oh no. Oh no.
How did she forget about this?
Yes, the Cape Cod Bryerson Family Reunion Weekend always sneaks up on you like a cardigan-wearing endangered leopard, but this time, when it’s really important, she forgets? […]