By: Matt McCarter Mike Chamberlain usually arrived at the office of the Piankashaw Journal, the weekly newspaper, late and thoroughly hungover from a hard night of drinking. He looked into the bottom drawer of his desk and found a half empty…
By: Matt McCarter Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird is the most well-known Southern novel of the 20th Century. An entire generation of people were raised on the 1962 film of the same name starring Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch. In…
By: Mary Kaye Valdez “Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four… Forty-four…” our bus driver, Bernie, counted dreadfully slow. Please, say forty-five already. “Forty-three? No, forty-two?” he recounted. It was probably the fifth time he had been counting. It was also probably the fifth time…
By: Kimberly Potter Kendrick she tried and tried b u t it was never enough t h e r e was no right answer n o r correct decision e v e r y facet of her life C H…
By: Cynthia Lloyd When Arthur fell in love with the farmhouse in Brittany, Jenny was too much in love with Arthur to care where they lived. “I’ll be fine,” she had said, “I’ve loads to do.” Jenny illustrated children’s books. “And…
By: Cynthia Lloyd Eleanor frowned as she looked out of the taxi window. She had thought the city would be unrecognisable after twenty years, but it looked just as she remembered it. Most of the shops and restaurants lining the steep…
By: Kelly Miller Making longwinded strokes painting a picture worth 1,000 words and more White washing life so my true colors won’t show through Cleaning the chalk from the slate again Does my life really imitate my art, shades of grey?…
By: Adrian Slonaker If you assume I remember you take hay fever medication every August; your meals must be prepared macrobiotically; you stroll alone through churchyards when you wish to reflect, if you assume I feel the swirling cyan of your…
By: Rajnish Mishra Life-long have I envied others many a line, Will someone ever envy One of mine? My verse born now, Fresh – dead until read. Someone, anyone, yes, you – If only you read it! Would you call it…
By: Rajnish Mishra My poems are signed anonymous, For anonymous they are, From somewhere they come, Sometimes. Who makes them? What time? Which place? In what climes? I think not I fathom it all. I know it as true, That there…