It’s hard to know when it started—the hollow feeling when I entered my building. The unease as I unlocked the front door, like I was entering a stranger’s house with my own key, the yellow porchlight turning my fingers into ownerless digits. Always I expected the weight to lift once I’d crossed the threshold, or certainly when I’d walked up two flights of stairs to my condo. But even inside my own space, it was still there. Twenty-some years have passed since I lived on 19th Street in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of D.C., but … Continue reading The Secrets We Kept in Our Condo Association by I. S. Berry→
Kat’s portrait tilted on Wendy’s dresser festooned with effulgent skyscrapers: birds of paradise and stargazers. A spent cork from a New Year’s Eve, a paling Polaroid of the two at the Whitney Biennial laid in front. Some days Wendy endured a seemingly endless passion for Kat. At some point though, exhausted by unquenchable longing, Wendy moved the portrait to the kitchen wall adjacent to the airshaft window, but there it gathered grime and the stray pigeon feather, so she took it down, tissue-wrapped, bubble-wrapped, boxed and labeled it. Like Kat taught her. She leaned … Continue reading Candy Apple Smile by Catherine Chiarella Domonkos→
Writers write. Worriers worry. I am quite adept at doing both. You know, simultaneously. I penned my first book, Close, while partaking in a seasons-long guilty-addiction to a certain TV show that featured vulnerable families receiving “therapy” from a bombastic and accusatory host, for entertainment purposes. As I watched, I worried about the struggling teens and parents having their pain exploited for ratings. So I made up Kik Marcheson and her three daughters who learn first-hand the dangers of inviting the country into a counseling session. My next novel, Best Intentions, was about medical malpractice … Continue reading Where’d The Idea For That Come From? by Erika Raskin→
On a foggy dawn like this, at the edge of the cliff, at the edge of winter when the wind is blowing through the forest, all the ice chips clattering against each other, Ian loves the pin pricking ice against his cheeks. He screams into the chasm to hear the sound eaten up by the air. Later, he’ll commute down to town and anonymous himself in front of a computer, wearing his headphones, and typing, the words losing their meaning, his caffeine ritual keeping him going, but that wild place of cliffs, wind, and fog … Continue reading Ian, Who Lives on the Mountain Overlooking the City Where He Works by John Brantingham→
As I marked another donation box I’d filled with my son’s trach supplies, the doorbell rang. Two men in identical ball caps and polo shirts smiled at me from the front steps when I opened the door. The shorter of the two, handsome and well-built, gestured with a clipboard and said, “Afternoon. My name’s Lance. How’s your day going so far?” I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” “Good.” He nodded. “That’s good. Beautiful afternoon, beautiful neighborhood. And we have a beautiful opportunity that folks like you lucky enough to live here qualify for. Won’t be … Continue reading Flowers by William Cass→
Studio City, November, 2016 Had a great time going back home for Thanksgiving. Everyone was there—Mom, Dad, my Sister, our championship horse Spencer. My room is basically the same except Mom moved all my water polo trophies to the living room. But then on my bed I find a first place ribbon from the Getty Center Rising Artist Contest! “I found that coffee mug you painted in third grade ceramics class,” said Mom. “The one with the dinosaurs on it. I thought it was so good I decided to submit it on your behalf!” And … Continue reading My Inspiring Journey by Sean Nishi→
Someone asked me what a writer’s voice is. I was momentarily tongue-tied. It’s a tricky concept to capture and describe–a little like trying to render a physical sensation or an unfamiliar smell. Lots of adjacent experiences tend to be employed in the effort. But bear with me while I give it a shot. Forty years ago a rat died in our kitchen pipes. (I’ve generally recovered, thanks.) I chronicled the traumatic incident for Salon detailing the stench that came from the spigot as rotting chicken in the meat drawer– with a side of decomposing broccoli. … Continue reading No YOU Say it Erika Raskin→
Lucy and Henry are not an unusual couple. They forgive slights, hold some grudges, and share hilarity at mispronunciations, bad teeth, and their small mixed terrier French Fry. Average looking, they are both youthful for fifty, dedicated runners, and occasional eaters of ice cream. When their daughter Olive was born, they were smitten, and keen to keep to their small family unit. As an accountant Henry quantified Olive’s every childhood achievement. June, a florist, had strong opinions on how their daughter mixed colorful outfits. Both considered themselves Olive’s most important people. But as Olive … Continue reading Transference by MaryLewis Meador→
I have a five-year-old grandchild who lives in Paris. Recently, she informed me that when she plays tag at her schoolyard, to avoid becoming “it,” all she must do is scurry to a yellow drum, touch it, and yell, “Maison Magique!” Those two words keep her safe. “Nothing bad can happen to you in maison magique, Deb-deb.” She calls me “Deb-deb” to get around the parental edict, “You may not call an adult by her first name.” My grandchild’s voice is reassuring because she believes what she asserts. Listening to her, I longed for … Continue reading MAISON MAGIQUE by Deborah M. Prum→
The kitchen is new to her, its wide granite island, so big you could autopsy a moose on it. More cabinet space than she’d had in all her previous kitchens combined, and then some. A Viking range. A hot water tap. Ice and water through the door in the refrigerator. Although her contributions were meager by comparison, they merged kitchen tools. Her KitchenAid mixer; her mixing bowls; his Cuisinart food processor; his silverware set. Chili is simmering in an enameled pot on the stove. Cornbread bakes in the oven. Her own work day finished, Sarah … Continue reading You Must Pay The Rent by Marijean Oldham→
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