image curtesy of the Public Domain Review

by Steven Mellor

a car is to . . . a. start a fire with, b. eat on, c. take pictures with, d. ride in, e. draw with

She circled a. and said absolutely.  I said, you don’t want to lose a point.  She said
she didn’t want the point and was sure about her answer.  And I knew right then
I’d go anywhere she wanted to go.

poor means having very little . . . a.

art by Helen Hofling

by Marie Anne Arreola

The door is ajar, and it doesn’t occur to me to knock; it is my house, after all.

The gunshot sounds like toast popping—quick, obvious, almost polite.

A child holds the weapon, his arms trembling like new branches trying to bluff the wind. I set a hand on his shoulder and ask if he’s okay. He tells me dinner’s ready.

On the table waits a plate without a fork, a hunger waiting for instructions.

art curtesy of the author

by Elizabeth Schoettle

Money

I wish I could draw fairies. That is what I should do today. Go to the art store, buy markers and try to draw some fairies. A purple winged fairy I’d make come to life then have her make me small so we could fly all over the world eating fairy food. There’s nothing left. Stop wasting time; but what do voices sound like, real voices? I don’t know, but I do love the color of this orange shirt I’m wearing.

image curtesy of the Public Domain Review

by Ilana Maymind

I am sitting on a windowsill. My mom says not to sit here. She is not at home now. She is still at work. She just called and said she might be late tonight.
I love sitting on a windowsill. I love watching people moving behind their curtains. Sometimes they open them wide; then you can see even better. I love sitting here, especially on a sunny day. The windowsill gets so warm.
Mom says I shouldn’t sit on a windowsill and look into people’s windows.

image curtesy of the Public Domain Review

by HR Harper

We watch a rising tide together. We avoid the salty foam chugging up to our knees. But we welcome ebbing, with its slick metaphors and clickbait embarrassments. We entangle at the breakwater sitting cheek by jowl on top of the riprap, on these rocks quarried from the channel islands, Anacapa and Santa Cruz.  I look at you, my oldest friend, and see a brotherhood of strangers. I admire your handsome profile and my guts ask for the blessings of impermanence.