Section
Showing 49-72 of 565 pieces
Fiction
She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the rows of color-coded tabs in the drawer, pretending to deliberate, the brilliant stone twinkling with each gyration under icy fluorescent office light. “Thanks,” Malik mumbled when she handed the folder over, quickly wheeling himself away. Dom coughed and turned, seemingly
Fiction
She was the diamond brooch of the family, who had roasted chickens, hams and turkeys, stirred gallons of iced tea, and served pound cake on Franciscan Apple earthenware. No calorie need ever be counted, nor any puff from a Virginia Slim. She bestowed comfort from hands fragrant with Porcelana. Cold
Fiction
A slim mirrorless camera sits in the center of a display case among camera lenses and larger DSLR cameras. Technology has vastly improved since this camera came out. Working photographers would replace it with something with more megapixels and a better lens. They’d write off the donation on their taxes.
Fiction
They searched for unholy things that lived amongst the trees. They were born from the very trees they’d be strung up on. A sin birthed smelling of a flower. The mob marched, holding lanterns and axes. They were not people of sin.
Fiction
Between mouthfuls I inspected Nuno. Short, solid built, thick arms and legs. He looked to be in his late thirties but was dressed young, in bell bottom jeans and a pink and purple paisley long-sleeved shirt. He wore his dark brown hair down to his shoulders. I noticed his eyes darting around, circling the room like a flashlight.
Fiction
Everything changed with the arrival of Bo. He walked in high-waisted skinny jeans, his curly hair draping over his shoulder and his back. A thin line of mascara on his eyelashes, a tinge of pink-red on his lips. He was twelve years old, five feet eight inches tall and strutting around the village like a whore of Police Bazaar. You knew immediately that was something you couldn’t stomach. You knew how revolting it is for a boy to walk around like that, staring at men like that, talking to other men like that.
Fiction
Something was off that morning, that pre-dawn, before I went for a walk and crossed paths with The Man Who Sneezed, but to this day I cannot pinpoint just what was off. Maybe it was the fact that I had cream in my usually black coffee that afternoon, or that my daily conversation with my mother got cut short, or maybe the fact that I was so low that night that I got high so as to forget about the low
Fiction
You see me bite my lower lip. Hear the grating screech of metal on floor as I pull a chair over to sit at eye-level, the way they taught us to in medical school when ‘Delivering Bad News’. This is not the quick “The CT scan of your head looks great!” conversation you were hoping for.
Fiction
A short piece of flash fiction by Azee Amoo
Fiction
Three honks when she left. Two honks for “I’m home.” One honk for each word. It was theirs. “I love you.” “I’m home.” It meant she was safe.
Fiction
The General broke out into a fit of laughter, picking up the earthen ball of clay. “Oh, la fille,” he laughed, as my family and I remained still. “You are but a commoner, so you do not know better, but this is a holistically inaccurate depiction!” He would not stop laughing. “Come here, child. You see, the Earth is flat, like this table.”
Fiction
Under the Rules & Regulations of the Apartment Owners’ Association of the Sandhyatara Apartment Complex, pet animals were prohibited. No one had violated the prohibition so far; but a puppy arrived in Apartment 1102, on the eleventh floor of Building C, about a month back.
Fiction
“What kind of purple?” I hadn’t a clue. She prodded me forward. “Is it blue purple or red purple?” Blue purple, I was sure. “And what color is the shadow?” Purplish grey, I guessed. Yes, she said and awarded me the praising smile I coveted.
Fiction
The Dodson twins never imagined what would come of it that day when their aunt dropped off a Banyan seedling on their doorstep.
Fiction
“The marigolds are dying,” Maggie started the conversation as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. She then sucked a cigarette, her exhalation roaring into the receiver. “It’s only September.”
Fiction
The boy was fourteen, so he knew what he was doing. At fourteen we are everything we will ever be which is why it’s then that the world attempts to so drastically improve us.
Fiction
The path was often muddy, you had to use roots for steps, and it led us out of the warm light that the barn breathed out.
Fiction
Branko was right, Agoston was never very prosperous. He was a blacksmith in the old country
Fiction
Just before dawn. Another blue sky turned orange. I burned through a neighborhood in Agoura Hills.
Fiction
With dawn the rain abated, and as the boy unzipped and peeled back the tent’s door panel to survey the campsite
Fiction
I nodded, looked out over the city, and thought that what Jake had just said was exactly what was wrong with white people.
Fiction
To be fair, Fred does try to “improve” the bus. A few months ago, he installed a wooden stove in the middle of the aisle
Fiction
Only when he passes Ms Kriti in the main corridor does Pujari Lal realize what had happened.
Fiction
Mark throttled off and let the train ease down to forty. There was nothing else to worry about for miles.