By Kathie Giorgio, Dark, Literary, Romance, Short Stories, Uncategorized

Dottie never had ramen noodle soup until after her husband died. She was sixty-three years old, and while she was a college graduate, the student staple of brightly colored soup packages never caught her eye during that particular four years, or for all the years after. In college, she stayed in the dorms and the only time she didn’t eat in the cafeteria was on the weekends, when she went out wi


By Lisa Lynn Biggar, Literary, Romance, Short Stories, Uncategorized

The deejay was Martin Q. Blank—at least that’s what he called himself, after some character in the movie, “Grosse Point Blank,” played by John Cusack. We bet most of his listeners had never seen the quirky comedy about a professional assassin, so they thought that was his real name and felt sorry for him—a last name so completely lacking in identity. And what’s with the Q? Quentin? Qua

Laughter in the Dark

By Abigail George, Literary, Short Stories

“I mean if she was a perfectionist I think I would be able to understand that. I think I would be able to understand if she was an anorexic or bulimic.” I can hear my wife’s voice in the distance. We’re driving through the drizzle to reach you. Thoughts on my mind. Passing endless fields. You’re my daughter. You will always be my little girl. You’ve gone through something, is al

Malls Nipples

By Greig Olivier, Poetry, Short Stories

On a dizzy-high Interstate ramp—elevated to clear two lower ramps lying far below, which, in the smoky Dusk looked special-effects-real, efficiently channeling traffic North and South like God’s working will—our sleek Sedan approached Mall steadily from West. With nothing above us but Up, we feared. The road banked steeply right. We steered into the crowded parking lot like an airplane landi

Second Chances

By Anthony Ausiello, Literary, Short Stories

“You selfish bastard,” my brother shouts at me, “You’ll see once you’re married for twenty years like me, once you’ve been changing diapers and going to sleep at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night. You’ll be praying for someone to have a bachelor party.” He veers sharply off the last exit of the Staten Island Expressway before the bridge to Jersey with a twitch of his right hand. I ti

A Haunted House

By Virginia Woolf, Dark, Drama, Literary, Short Stories

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple. “Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.” But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no.

Kew Gardens

By Virginia Woolf, Literary, Romance, Short Stories

FROM THE OVAL-SHAPED flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves half way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous eno

Monday or Tuesday

By Virginia Woolf, Classic, Literary, Short Stories

LAZY and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever—— Desiring trut

Blue & Green

By Virginia Woolf, Classic, Literary, Short Stories

Green THE PORTED fingers of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets—their harsh cries—sharp blades of palm trees—green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the dessert sand; the camel


By Kristina Gorcheva-Newberry, Drama, Literary, Short Stories

It began with fish.  One sulky, rainy afternoon, a man walked into my store and asked if he could order fifty live salmon. Dressed in leather duds, he was short, square-jawed, dark-skinned, with long grey hair and a creased face. He was ancient.  A silver hoop dangled from his huge earlobe that reminded me of my grandmother’s. She used to tug at her ears when she told horror stories about WWII