By: Adam Page I have to be honest from the outset. When someone tells me their favourite novel is A Confederacy of Dunces, I need to know why. Because two types of people love this book, and they exist on…

By: Donald Lee A pep rally was scheduled for Saturday ahead of Collegiate Prep’s boys’ basketball championship game but for now the students straggling into Ms. Burke’s AP Calculus class for first period were still half asleep. Students were free…

By: Jim Bates Awesome bright wonderJupiter and Venus shineLighting the deep night. Summertime gardenFlowers so bright and cheerfulRefreshing the soul. Big Bluestem prairieWind racing through wildflowersSea of grass flowing. Early morning sunCasting golden glowing lightDewy grass sparkles. Fresh corn-on-the-cobSweet golden…

By: Yurii Tokar    It doesn’t matter why the trim, fifty-eight-year-old Sergei Viktorovich Krapchishin, in an elegant dark-gray suit, an ironed white shirt, and polished black leather shoes, unexpectedly found himself, on a spring morning in 2025, on a narrow,…

By: Eugen Oniscu When I was twenty years old, I had formed a rather unusual habit: I would borrow a book from the library and go to my father’s grave, where a large cherry tree grew and a bench stood…

By: William Kitcher Olivia’s hours at the hospital were cut back, and Ignacio didn’t get the raise he was expecting, so they decided to rent out their spare bedroom. They were in their early forties and saving for a house…

By: Dan Bavister Dreaming the Wreck She worries not that the water mayReflect her gaze – she only caresFor the deep cool of swaying water weeds,Of shells all marbled in the coursing flow,The many gardens of the tide pools. A…

   By: Frank J. Albert      Abner Snopes in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” is stolidly self-justified in his refusal to belong to any community. He is the hero of his own story – the story that plays out in his own…

By: Eliza Mimski I am one of those people who keeps a daily journal of sorts. That’s me–I’m 79 now– and I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember. From the moment I wake up in the…

By: James Aitchison (untitled) dipping his pen in mother’s milkthe baby wrote about stormy heavensand a weasel in a pieabout pink remembered hillsfinite and romanticwithout periphrases or inversionsuntil he lost every scrap of sincerityand the pathos of objectsa mystic babythe…