Jada had a serious problem. The problem was named Kyle, a 5’6”, blond example of what happens when you give your kids too much praise when they’re young. Jada was our best friend, and despite... [+]
Short Fiction
Jada had a serious problem. The problem was named Kyle, a 5’6”, blond example of what happens when you give your kids too much praise when they’re young. Jada was our best friend, and despite... [+]
The meep of the alarm dragged me from the warmth of my quilt cocoon and smack into Monday morning. I had to bat at it four times before it finally stopped and I found my glasses. 6:00 A.M. and... [+]
Anthony and DeAndre stood in the snack line studying the menu. They'd stared at its sun-bleached images of ice cream and chips every day so far this school year. It was a ritual, matching their mood... [+]
There’s nothing I love more than eating. Mmm, yes. Fat Boy loves a good meal. I enjoy the crunch, the squish, even the quietest sizzles as I grind every little particle between my molars. I... [+]
Bag over my shoulder, I turn around once more at the threshold of the crevice: this cave was my last abode. Giving it up is hard, but I don't have time to feel sad: the tide of mist crawls at my... [+]
When Eliana returned to the Phoenix Hotel Yogyakarta that night, she imagined that her grandfather’s footsteps on the same floors, in the same hotel, after climbing the same mountain, would have... [+]
Her name is Amina. The keeper of the tribe's goats, she knows all the paths and all the trails on the great plateau of white stones that stretches all the way to the horizon. She walks and hops on... [+]
The stallion pounded the ground with its hooves in a wild gallop, its horsewoman leaning over its neck. With no saddle or bit, the mount flew free, its mane in the wind.
Nighttime enveloped the... [+]
Felix jumped up onto the sofa and, lying full length against his master, began to purr noisily to show how contented he was. His master stopped reading and began to stroke him, delighting in sinking... [+]
With his arm outstretched and his shoulders relaxed, he concentrates on the target. No rush. Shooting with a bow and arrow is a delicate art. He remembers the words of his trainer, “You have to be... [+]
All libraries should have these luminous corners. That space near the blinds, behind the section reserved for the Quattrocento; or that seldom frequented mezzanine, obstructed by boxes and... [+]