by Hillary Leftwich
Mallory's gynecologist tells her that she is going to paint her cervix. She says it offhandedly, like she is planning on getting her nails done or run to the grocery store for more milk.
by Gay Degani
Inside the antique mall, Nora snatches up a hand-sewn quilt in a pattern of ruby hourglass blocks and breathes in its dust. She wipes her damp eyes with its hem, then pauses to test the air for the smells of lemon oil and paper mold, the musty corners of ancient sideboards and roll-top desks, a hint of the petroleum distillates that used to permeate her mother's own little shop.
by L.L. Madrid
The final notes fade as the needle traces the record's outer grooves. The turntable's arm floats up and staggers to the side. There is a fizz of static and then nothing. My heart breaks a little whenever the music ends, especially when it's something I haven't heard before. I try not to worry about how long it will be until I hear the B-side.
by A.E. Weisgerber
This humidity wreaked havoc on Pam's can-can moves in dance class—the floor stuck just enough to prevent spinning on balls of feet—so she walked through routines in the back row. She could say she'd exercised; anything to stay busy.
by Meghan Phillips
The night after Kasey's funeral I tried to shoot off the first rocket. I'd found a whole pack of them in her little shed, still wrapped in plastic.
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