wake from summer’s sleep to rosehip frost and cold blue skies shirt cuffs stained with linseed oil door frame swollen in overnight rain...

I’ll stop listening to the news, instead listen to the birds, their wings and the wind and how it edges doors open. I’ll wake up at dawn...

I lost you but found you. Hope. I hope you’re much better. I hope you know who I am. I hope I’ll be a better stranger, lover, daughter,...

Can a smile cast with sincerity be anything but good? That’s one of the many questions Charles Harper Webb poses in his novel, Ursula...

Mia flicked the cigarette butt into the air, burning end, a cancerous firefly, drunk on the night air. The boy, four years younger, and...

A Review of Jayne Martin's The Daddy Chronicles. By Dave Nash “Memory is like shards of glass from a broken mirror where pieces have gone...

The truth is, you were better in the imagination. Staring out a window watching snow fall into caverns. The truth is I never wanted this...

Leigh Chadwick thinks bed is good. She says, Bed is where people should be when they should be in bed. Adrienne Barrios tries to nod with...

Leigh Chadwick listens to “Step” by Vampire Weekend while driving to the Orange Hat. She’s two miles south of Clinch River when she sees...

1 tbsp oil 1 large onion 4 cloves garlic 2-3 medium carrots 1 turnip, elderly 500g pack lamb mince large splash Worcester sauce 2 tins of...

By Jessica Willingham John Weir’s linked stories explore sexuality and separation through platonic love, activism, art, and death — in a...

You have come to call her Mama, this water. Today she is high and rising still, ornery in the midday sun, carrying trees that stood tall...

The Five South Prize in Short Fiction celebrates both emerging and established talent. This year's prize is judged by Madeline Anthes....

A book called “Conversational Korean,” pages dog-eared and worn, and we wondered if you would have insisted that your friends call you...

The home is those animals who eat and keep trying. Two parents, a little sister, the trusted friendship of crimson azaleas. The hearth is...

1. The woman looks ridiculous with opera gloves and sunglasses on indoors. She makes a kissing noise to a tiny, ghost-white schnauzer...

When John and I tried to make rocket fuel in my basement lab, we ground up sodium chlorate and sugar, and it blew up. Pieces of the glass...

In the flat and dusty nowhere between two glorious somewheres, dust lacquered our shoes, conditioned our hair, desiccated the skin we...

We discover our ghost selves one Saturday night while sneaking sips of tart-as-cherry pinot noir, the bottle stolen from Renata’s...

Whenever that question, “where’re ya from,” invariably arose among the transients and tourists alike thrust together in the service...