Fiction
by Rachel Rose.
“Earl was always chasing pussy when he was alive, so it was no big surprise when he came back as a weiner dog.”
by Elizabeth Downs.
“One otherwise pleasant evening at the asylum, I—a known murderess and recently declared Vice President of Ward G—escape through a partially opened, third-story window.”
by Joan Leegant.
“The surgeon came into the O.R. chewing gum. This was how we knew there’d be a problem. God have mercy, we mutter under our breaths…”
by Hollis Seamon.
“I shit you not. Right in front of the elevator that spits you into our hospice, there is—get ready for this—a harpist. I mean, isn’t that like a teensy bit premature?”
by Kathi Hansen.
“We’re not saying our boys are angels, … we’re just saying that we the mothers didn’t need to teach our boys not to rape.”
by Pat Tompkins.
“It was a shame anyone had to go to Carville, a pity there was no cure, but Gar had been to war and knew how little fairness had to do with anything.”
by Daniela Garvue.
“After he brushed his teeth, he raised his wings in the bathroom to examine his smoky gray underfeathers.”
by Lauren Green.
“When the bell finally rings, waste no time. Grab your Kipling from the cubby and head straight to the front of the carpool line.”
by Carter Sickels.
“We were out of heroin and broke. Didn’t have pills. Nothing to drink or huff. “I’ve got a plan,’ I said.”