Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Fiction

By Nicole Sharp The coffeepot sputtered and coughed in annoyance. Janie Holms sighed, waiting for that first drip of brown liquid to trickle into the twelve cup coffee pot. When it did, she gave another heavy sigh and righted herself,…

Fiction

By: Maa Salaam “Aleem! Aaleem! “Ma!” “Aaaleeem!” “Maaaa!” I shouted. Mothers and their incessant calls, especially when you were playing, especially now when I was losing and fighting to come back. Uuurgh! “Alee–“ “Maa! I’m coming!” I quickly packed my…

Fiction

By: Don Tassone Arjun Agarwal and Akeyo Kamau met during their first year of medical school at Johns Hopkins. Arjun was from India, Akeyo from Kenya. Both were new to the US. They had seen each other in biochemistry. Each…

Fiction

By: Robert Spielman Very seldom does a man of any age, especially a man who has reached the age of deep-rooted regret, have only one item on the end table at the right hand of his rocking chair. Usually, a…

Poetry

By: William Doreski Glacial Erratics in Belmont Being rocks, they don’t remember. Or remember very little. The streets square up to houses, to the playground, tennis courts, and the large but effete cemetery. The rocks squat self-conscious on lawns as…

Fiction

By: Bruce Levine Fifteen minutes of fame. Not much consistency. Not much to build a career on. Not much to build a life on. Why did he bother? Why did he go through all the trouble? He’d asked himself those…

Fiction

By: Linda Barrett One Thalia had everything ready for the last night of her life. While Hurricane Denise poured gallons of water down on the small New Jersey town, Thalia prepared herself for her suicide. She bought the sleeping pills…

Fiction

By Russ Bickerstaff The place would’ve been considered squalid if it weren’t for the fact that there never really seemed to be that much of a consciousness there to judge its condition. This is not to say that there wasn’t…

Poetry

By: Ajay Kumar Beach The sand refuses to own, the sea denies, orphaned the plastic breathes in undeservation- I feel obliged to call my limbs brown describing them under the sand even though, there, or beneath sea-foam, it is not…

Poetry

By: Alan Berger I have not done anything wrong Then again, my memory Ain’t that long A walk in the sunny park Has become a stroll in quicksand In the dark I watch the news And search to see Who…