Category Archives: Fiction

Pinkie Toe Lucas Shepherd

Pinkie Toe Lucas Shepherd

On Monday we received in the mail a birthday card envelope with a pinkie toe inside. No return address. The toe had been preserved the way some people around here save the paws of rabbits they’ve shot or trapped.

Errands T. Lucas Earle

Errands T. Lucas Earle

“First, let’s start with flavors. We’ve got Cherry Lime Surprise, Purple Rhino, Doris Day, Saliva, White Pineapple, Dark Destiny, Orange Mango, Caramel, and just about any classic rocker from the 70s.”

Bad Guys Ryan Napier

Bad Guys Ryan Napier

It’s a dangerous world. For example: I went to the Subway on Pineridge. It was just before noon. Everything seemed normal. I ordered my sandwich and left. That night, I watched the news. There was a story about a kidnapping, and then there was a story about a drug bust. And then, suddenly, there it was—the Subway on Pineridge.

A Comfortable-Enough Life Annabelle Fern Praznik

A Comfortable-Enough Life Annabelle Fern Praznik

Nervous and fumbling with a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes—my brand, though I’d quit years ago—he reminded me of a fledgling fallen from the nest. Eyes searching the room wildly, tufts of black hair sprouting in cowlicks, beaky nose becoming redder and redder each time he wiped it with his handkerchief. I was shocked to see him this way. When we were in school together at Columbia, he was cool, reserved, collected.

Recipe S. F. Wright

Recipe S. F. Wright

It’s twelve o’clock, and Dan still isn’t here. I sit on the couch next to the small artificial Christmas tree; six or seven presents I’ve bought him lie underneath it. I’ve bought one for Alice, too, whom I’ve never met.

Dear Wendy John Faugno

Dear Wendy John Faugno

Dear Wendy,

There is nothing more daunting than seeing “Word Count:  0” at the bottom of the page.  It’s been six days since I got here and I haven’t managed a single word that I want to save.  “Come to Arbor,” they said, “it’s the perfect place for writers.”  Here’s my first word:  Bullshit.

Arbor, Rhode Island is a tiny little town on the ass end of the Block Island Sound.  My grandfather’s beach house is little more than a cabin overlooking the rocky end