Fiction
by Robert Oldshue.
“Now it might seem that a nursing home with only two floors and forty – seven residents would be a hard place to lose somebody.”
by Stephanie Wrobel.
“I knew years ago that the paternal gene was missing. I should not, would not, be relied on by other humans, especially small, defenseless ones.”
by Rebecca Wurtz.
“Paul once thought that the talent and ambition that had propelled him into graduate school as the first Negro PhD in pharmacology would keep propelling him, perhaps into a chairmanship at a prestigious Negro university. But life and history took over…”
by Lauren Erin O’Brien.
“Yarrow doesn’t say much aside from being strange but that’s less him and more his parents, if he even has those. He doesn’t seem like the type to come from a womb.”
by Leslie Jamison.
“God knows my father did his share of speed, but it was the smoking that finally got him.”
by Joan Malerba-Foran.
“I’ve never been what you would call a good sleeper. I make it through the night about twice a week, and those nights are never consecutive.”
by Trenton Streeting.
“After my father’s disk sander had whirred to halt, he turned to me and gestured majestically. ‘Matthew, the work is always the best pay.'”
by John Thompson.
“I did a little time once. It wasn’t a long bit, but that doesn’t matter much. Time is time.”
by Robert Oldshue.
“You know how it is. You think you’re married, you’re married to Albie forty-two, what is it, forty-three years, so at least you know Albie. Right?”