Jonathan D. Scott It took me a few seconds before I understood that the girl was talking to me. She stood on the step above where I was sitting, bent slightly, casting a shadow over my textbook. “Joe!” I looked up. She was a white girl. Her light brown hair was pulled back behind her… More

Pop Psychology

Dylan James Brock Part 1 22 June 2002, twelve am Chloe and I sit facing each other on the stone railing of her front porch. It must be midnight – the stoplight above the intersection of Grant and Cherokee just started blinking red. I sip from a cup of coffee that is somehow cold in… More

Sissy, of Corint

Caitlin Horrocks Sissy had worked weekends at Corint’s Steakhouse since she was 15 and not allowed to carry open drinks to the tables. Another server or bartender had to do it for her and they grumbled, but not too loudly, because she was the boss’s daughter, and Zachary Corint was one of the few bosses… More

Hurricane Season

Claire Rudy Foster Liz was a chain-smoker. She sat on the roof at night, lighting cigarette after cigarette, one off of another. She rarely got caught because she kept all the stubs in one of Pop’s empty beer cans. The section of the roof where she sat was right next to the dumpster, she would… More

The Day-Trader

Ryan McCarl Every day for ten years Robert had come to this café on the second floor of the Borders on North Michigan Avenue. He was a talented day-trader, fluent in the language of the market. He saw candlesticks and skylines in graphs where those with less training saw only the patternless movement of a… More

Blue Boy

Susan Levi Wallach I was nine years old when I killed the boy, pushing the knife between the soft bones of his chest with both my hands. I pulled it out slowly, not realizing at first the finality of what I’d done. “What’s your name, boy?” I whispered. He had been playing in the woods… More

The Bluebird

Richard Cassone Lili leaned against the window and listened to the noise on the playground. The children below were organizing themselves into rows along neat lines painted on the blacktop, waiting to go to school. Since she’d entered the fifth grade, she always got to come in first and wait in the classroom. The older… More

The Photograph

Anthony Cuthbertson Looking back to that summer, the memories develop in my mind like a photograph in black and white. A simple unblemished nostalgia evoked in a grainy image of smiling faces on a summer day. The grey tone camouflaging the dirt and hiding the smell, a moment captured unspoiled by babble and clatter, romanticized… More

The Boy Who Cried Wolves

M. David Hornbuckle It began with a growing sensation in the lacrimal sac. The boy’s name was Daniel Ledbetter. His peers called him Bed Wetter—not due to any actual or even perceived incontinence on his part, simply because of the sound of the words. Nonetheless, the teasing of the children caused him heaviness of heart,… More

The Birth of Pistol Pete

Bill Hillmann It began at the carnival. Those magic nights, the whole of St. Greg’s parish there, all strolling over from the bungalows and two flats and apartments all mix matched throughout the neighborhood. There were the games, the shouts of the carnies, the swirling thunder of the Tilt-A-Whirl, lights flashing, pulsing, the colors of… More