Fiction

Teressa Ezell
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In Praise of Mud by Teressa Rose Ezell

And what of this wind-whipped, soggy, savory day with its cloak of grey and its stinging drops, brown grass and bare branches, stark naked but still in glorious, dancing majesty? There is no train of hopeful, athletic feet running through the park now; just my husband, myself, and our wolfish dog, trudging. My husband’s loafers,…

Mama’s Bread by Aida Ibisevic

(Sarajevo, the winter of 1993-1994) Regardless of how much flour we had, Mama always baked bread on the nights when Brat was returning from the shift in the trenches. She was easy to find–hips against the counter, swaying to a song in her head while she wiped her hands on the apron. On the counter,…

Cave-diving by George Michelson

In the sunken cave everything is gridded with day-glo string. This is necessary: Tunnels and fissures branch off into the karst and red clay, and most are unexplored. To lose her way would be unthinkable. She has eighty minutes of air at the beginning of her dive. Swimming like this, 20 meters under the halocline…

The New Wife by Jennifer Porter

She decided the new wife should ease into the role gradually despite their shared eagerness. They began with sleepover’s. She and the husband had not shared the same bedroom in many years due to his farting, snoring, thrashing, and bed and blanket hogging, and he liked it that way. She knew that if the new…

Souvenir by Alex Austin

When Jake was eight years old, his father took his brother and him to a salvage yard. They hoped to find a driver’s side mirror for the family’s Buick, which had been hit by a watermelon on mischief night. At the yard’s entrance, big, angry German shepherds stalked pens on either side of the gate,…

Nothing by Pamela Hill

Sleek, grey smoke rises from the cigarette between Norma’s fingers as a calico purrs against her. She reclines in a paisley chaise lounge next to the window, loosens her hair from clips, and sips merlot that flows from crystal. Looking out a window at fireflies flashing through trees under a crescent moon, she remembers fire…

Heroin(e) by Vincent Wood

It was beautifully sweet, painful, fucked-up love. I knew it was love because I hadn’t fucked her yet, which is what I did to everyone I didn’t fucking like. If I hated you, I fucked you, because I hated myself. I tried to fuck with her head to compensate for the lack of fucking fucking,…

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