Fiction

This is a story from when the world was young.

The former mayor of Baghdad opened a restaurant in my east Denver neighborhood.

Like all boxers, they fight themselves, ducking and weaving through a horde of ghosts.

Fran looks to her people, then back to the watermelon. Slowly, as their faces and bellies recover, she brings the microphone up to her mouth.

I decide to build a county fair in my back yard, so I go to Lowe’s and buy a hammer, some nails, and a plastic children’s pool for the dunk tank.

Stephen had been meaning to write more, but most days after work it just seemed a lot easier to watch re-runs of Pretty Little Liars on HBO Max.

From her sick chair near her bedroom window on the second floor, she could look down on the devastation but do nothing.

Grief, securing its furthest reach, may enclose someone as completely as a mother encloses a fetus.

I looked up and saw these black smudges all over the roof. First I thought it was mud or leaves or both, but then I noticed the feathers.

Lex had asked the question so many times it had become rote, yet today she yearned to know the answer. She couldn’t explain why.