Little Things

CREATIVE NON-FICTION

by Stephanie Gresham

“I’m basically knocking on death’s door,” she says, “and I need you to know about the diamonds before it’s too late.” I pace the sidewalk in front of the bookstore while people pass on their way to lunch or shopping or whatever people whose mothers aren’t suddenly dying do. . . .

Where I’ve Been Tonight

creative non-fiction

by Shelby Hinte

I keep changing the cutoff time for drinking liquids before bed but still, every day at three a.m., my bladder wakes me up to pee. First, I walk to the kitchen and open the silverware drawer, I take out the biggest spoon, pull down the jar of peanut butter from the cupboard, scoop out a mound, and return the jar. I take my spoonful of peanut butter to the bathroom. . . .

journal of the ridiculous

fiction

by Aaron Burch

I looked at Kellie like, what the fuck are you talking about? 

“When you were still sleeping,” she said. “I heard a guy outside say to someone, ‘Five days to the next dance fest!’”

I’d heard her the first time, but it sounded funny. It was that phrase—dance fest—but something else, too. Or maybe it was just the phrase. . . .

MOOD; TRAGIC, DELIRIOUS

fiction

by Bill Whitten

From the BQE, I steered my friend Bergamaschi’s beige 1987 Dodge D-100 pick-up to the exit that led to the Long Island Expressway. I was headed to Montauk. 

Have it back by Tuesday was all Bergamaschi had said as he handed me the keys. . . .

why wolves chase us

fiction

by Damon McKinney

The young man burst through the underbrush. His clothes torn, and leaves clung to his pants. His disheveled brown hair was plastered to his forehead. He scanned the forest. A missing shoe and one muddy sock wrapped his feet. Scratches covered his arms from the thorn bushes and tree limbs. Tiny streaks of blood smeared his shirt as he ran wildly against the night. . . .

my frontal lobe blinks on

fiction

by Jacob Ginsberg

We’re 50 feet above the Seekonk river, about halfway up the Crook Point Bascule Bridge, and for the first time in my life the rush of physical peril yields to crystalline foresight and a simple, forceful thought: I really don’t want to die. . . .

school bus sermon

fiction

by Sage Tyrtle

In the back of the school bus, Cheryl Ronan is explaining to me about God. She is only ten months older than me, but she is taller and in fifth grade, and in the early winter dark her muted voice makes me think of priests I’ve seen on television taking confession. . . .

by Jason Sebastian Russo

You: [pre-birth] will it hurt?

Angel: you can't imagine.

You: will the worst part be the goodbyes

Angel: plus foreknowledge of them….