He Was Beautiful by Ron Moore

When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.

The Cancer Fairy by Judith Swann

It was a small dark body, like a mouse. Unemployed, it still drove the car, pushing the TV out the passenger-side door, yellow chyme and bile the color of grass, like...

Lucifer by CL Bledsoe

When I went to pick my daughter up at pre-school, the kids were on the playground. Her teachers eyed me uncomfortably and glanced across the slide at each other before...

The Story of My Father by Holly Karapetkova

He spoke seven languages and was never allowed to leave the country. He’d gone to school in Paris, which made him an enemy of the people. I’m sorry, but...

On Leave by Shari Jo LeKane-Yentumi

Only whiskey burns the sorrow as she grieves. Purple velvet once surrounded golden dreams. Both a season and a reason left on leave. Now a memory left blank before what...