Posted on September 30, 2001.
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by David L. Hebert
Margot pushed open the door at the back of the lounge and stepped out into the alley.
Another show, another unappreciative audience, another few minutes of indifferent applause.
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by Ruth Latta
“Young lady!” The voice was soft but penetrating. Automatically I put my hand on my jeans pocket, which contained my money and my keys. A year earlier in this very store, my purse had been stolen, and it had been hell to replace I.D. and credit cards. Now I was wary of my fellow-shoppers. Here, at the front of the store, near these shelves laden with dishes, cutlery and trinkets, it was easier to move about safely than in the narrowly spaced rows of clothing.
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Posted on April 20, 2001.
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by Larisa Dawn
The ride was agonizingly silent. She leafed through a magazine that she had already read three times. It would soon be her turn to drive, and she would not even have the comfort of reading. She liked to listen to the radio, but inevitably, she would start singing of which he did not approve. He wouldn’t complain, of course. That would take too much effort. He would just sit there and sigh and make those awful moans of disapproval.
He, in this case, referred to Sharon’s husband, David.
She would not have to call him that for much longer. She had her second appointment with her attorney Monday morning. She had to survive this weekend with him, and then she could go free.
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Posted on February 4, 2001.
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by David L. Hebert
Miss Sampson studied the sign and shook her head in disgust. In all her eighty-four years, she had never seen such disregard for the English Language.
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Posted on February 3, 2001.
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by Pamela Rice Hahn
One of my most frequent fantasies involves being the only female in a roomful of dignified men, each dressed in a dark custom-tailored suit and a power tie.
While growing up in a small Ohio farm community, I could only imagine the stylish world I read about or saw on TV: a world where men wore something other than bowling shirts, coveralls with mid-thigh black (or
fatigue green) rubber boots left unbuckled to the ankles, or white socks with their Sunday suits.
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Posted on December 1, 1999.
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A short story by Bryan Dobson
This issue’s Critique Corner: See the author’s bio at the end of the story regarding how to contact him to comment on his story.
It is hard to say how long it has been since Muriel has heard the voice of another human being. The last time she thought about it she suspected it had been a few weeks, at least. As Muriel sat on her blue satin pillow next to the window watching the rainfall she wished for another voice aside from her own. Perhaps Harold would telephone and ask how she was, but that was just wishful thinking and nothing more. Her son Harold had not called in more than five years, yet every time the phone would ring she held onto a glimmer of hope it might be him. Three years ago during a rare telephone call with her brother she had found out where he was. Harold had found himself a job managing a fancy new restaurant on a long pier in Florida. She suspected he was doing just fine. Harold had always loved people and he always loved the sun and sea. He would be happy there as there was little for him to smile about in Vancouver.
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Posted on November 2, 1999.
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A short story by Terence Watts
Mickey swore loudly as he jerked his unpolished, size eleven winklepicker boot at the side of the jukebox, trying for yet another free play.
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Posted on April 30, 1999.
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by Troy More
By most accounts, the drive-in theatre on Highway 17 should have been a peaceful, relaxing place to take the family for a night of reasonably priced entertainment. The only downfall that kept it from being so was its location, almost exactly halfway between our hometown of Mosquito Flats, and the town of Sodbuster Junction, whose inhabitants where the natural enemies of our people. Where this rivalry began has been lost to the mists of time, perhaps it was at a softball tournament, or a school basketball game, but whatever the reason, it was our duty to despise them.
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Posted on December 23, 1998.
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by Larisa Dawn
He slammed his book shut and pushed the wooden chair away from the small kitchen table. He had to do something. They had been sharing an office for more than three months. The semester was almost over. Randall couldn’t let Kayla choose another statistician for her thesis. He knew her work better than anyone, and he definitely wanted the chance to spend more time with her.
Randall began to devise a plan as he showered away the sweat and grime from his workout session earlier that evening. He had to think of some way to casually open up the lines of communication in a positive direction. Not that talking about work wasn’t positive for the sake of their careers, but it did nothing for their social lives. “What social life?” he muttered to himself.
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Posted on December 22, 1998.
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by Luanne F. Oleas
One moment Jess was laughing beside a tree, the next he was racing through hell with the odor of death all around him. Chunks of frozen earth erupted from the ground and pelted him. Jess’ lungs and legs ached in the bitter cold as he dodged plumes of black smoke. His rucksack bumped wildly against him with every stride while his fingers held a white-knuckle grip on his rifle.
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Pammy, the main character in the 
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