Volume 9 Number 2
Flash fiction reminds me of my childhood fascination with paleontology and archeology. I loved how, from just a chip of stone or a few improbable…
My mother never tells me about the morning I was born, only about the snowstorm—large and heavy and difficult to drive through—instead she teaches me…
With her I learned of the omentum. There is a greater and a lesser, and we held hands while looking at both. There is an…
For me it ends like this: with someone else’s vibrator, on someone else’s sheets. But it doesn’t start there. It starts the day I first…
I have a sexual fantasy in which I am fucked by all of the white men who have ever said something to me that I…
Julio asks me out every time I come alone to the BP where he works. Julio stands behind the counter—bling belt buckle, goatee, and gelled…
In Mary Lou Retton’s garage are five unopened cases of Wheaties with her face on them—her fists raised in triumph—and a folder of signed pictures…
Having just discovered William Carlos Williams’s writing, loving most-to-all of it, defying older brother and PhD candidate who says WCW is kind of old news…
My father, working as a prison guard, was often summoned to stand in the lineups when they didn’t have enough people. Regardless of how innocent…
I couldn’t resist the deal. Headstones for sale. Going out of business. Minor flaws. All sales final. “What better way to express the transitoriness of…