The school bus is squeaking past again, there’s a pumpkin/watermelon cage match in the produce aisle and — most critically — the annual influx of dynamite entries in Streetlight’s flash fiction contest have been read! As before, the judges were gifted with glimpses of whole worlds built a mere five hundred words at a time. Some captured the quotidian, others, terror; some broke our hearts and a few, too, were laugh-out-loud funny. (You’ll see.) All of which means that picking winners was freaking hard. We are not talking about a bridge design competition which … Continue reading It’s Fall (ish) And The Flash Fiction Results Are In! by Erika Raskin and Mary Esselman→
I never sort my clothes. Sorry, mom. Sure, my whites gray and colors fade, but they all go into the same load. All share the same daily sweat and stink. I leave them clean in a basket all week and must sort what I may wear that day. I’m jeans or slacks. Oxford or tee. My socks match up—what’s beneath nobody sees. My machine rattles with forgotten coins, a pocket knife I never use, the odd bolt or rock I might pocket. Sometimes, I find crumpled bills, all crisp after dryer cycle, a surprise from … Continue reading Self Portrait as a Pile of Dirty Laundry by Jeff Newberry→
Amelia Zahm is the third place winner of Streetlight’s 2025 Essay/Memoir Contest Long strides carry her forward. I hear joy, that annoying tone of cheerful morning people. Sharon’s joy vibrates from her chest and carries the lilt of her voice toward the sky. “What a day!” She bounces over the grass, her grin infectious as it widens across her freckled cheeks. She stops for a moment, cradling the black jumping saddle against her belly. The brilliant May sun glints from the round gold frame of her glasses as she tilts her face upward, eyes closed. … Continue reading Combined Training by Amelia Zahm→
Trixie Dougan Bijou Bellman was my mom’s dachshound when she was a kid. Though extremely short, Trixie had a rich and independent life. She walked around their Minneapolis neighborhood, giving wide berth to the front yard of Mrs. Sinclair whose reputation as a witch had clearly been conveyed cross-species.The abbreviated pet traveled an impressive circuit that included a stop at my great aunt and uncle’s place for some type of biscuit. This was apparently surprising in that, according to my grandfather, my uncle was notoriously tight. (Grandpa swore his brother-in-law bought one top shelf … Continue reading What Do Dogs Do All Day? by Erika Raskin→
Remember that time you spent five whole dollars on a ticket to win a calf at the fair? What you thought we’d do with a little cow, I have no idea. We lived in a two-room apartment. We wandered through the trade hall, looking at things to improve and repair a home we wouldn’t have for twenty-five years, considering where a hot tub might go, if we had a place, or what sort of siding would look best. We made an investment in ourselves, paid a small deposit with a promise that, after a year … Continue reading Hope by Carlene M. Gadapee→
I possess a book on reading at the beach. How to Read a North Carolina Beach* is one of those few books you need a beach to enjoy fully, one that prompts you to verify its contents by actually walking on the beach! The notion of reading at the beach began in the latter nineteenth century with the rise of summer vacations (not necessarily all at the beach) and this leisure time to read was promoted by the publishing industry producing entertaining, light, or fun works of literature. Thus, “beach read” eventually rose as … Continue reading Let the Leaves Turn by Fred Wilbur→
If you’d met him on a Greyhound bus in 1962 he’d have asked you to look out for Kerouac on every corner or find Mickey Mouse beneath a palm tree sweeping streets with brooms that danced themselves to life at parties just for you If he was drunk he’d drizzle Steinback over Shakespeare, float O’Casey’s Irish brogue on top of Tennessee, and wait for Godot with you if you got lonely on the carpet in your underwear and cowboy hat. Later he’d pour method into Montague, muddle warnings up with wanderlust, be once again Big … Continue reading My Father the Mixologist by Mara Lee Grayson→
The portraits of Nigerian artist Sholanke Boluwatife Emmanuel reveal his empathy, respect and sensitivity to his subjects. “The suffering and resilience of every African child raised from a poor family background is a theme that resonates deeply with me. I aim to highlight the struggles and triumphs that define our lives,” he says. Initially, Boluwatife says, he didn’t plan to pursue art, discouraged by the street artists he saw. Then, in 2011 in primary school at Holy Trinity School in Ogun state, his teachers and classmates encouraged young Boluwatife to draw. In secondary … Continue reading Portraits by Nigerian Artist Sholanke Boluwatife Emmanuel→
Etymology uncertain. That is how the dictionary deals with the origins of the word gradoo, tip-toeing lightly around a word you wouldn’t want to step in. Pronounced graw-doo with the accent on doo, as in Scooby-Doo and Yabba Dabba Doo, a colloquialism from the South, the dictionary says. Ahh! No surprise there. It’s not Connecticut yankees throwing a word like that around if classier terms are available. Which brings up the question of what, exactly, is gradoo. Back to the dictionary again: crud, filth, garbage, gunk; burnt mess stuck to the bottom of a pot. … Continue reading Gradoo by Richard Key→
Nonna tends Dad and Auntie in three room railroad flat; Bathtub in kitchen, 3′ x 5′ plywood tabletop, fridge at foot of bed, toilet in outside hallway with overhead waterbox and cold, wet chain hanging for the flush that suburban cousin Gina never could figure out how to use. Nonna fork-kneads one-inch pillows of dough filled with cheese, parsley, and beef. Tasted wonderful, even if too-many eggs and over-cooking meant they fell apart in grease-speckled broth. “Al Dente” could have been an opera singer, for all Nonna knew. She could not cook Italian: The ravioli … Continue reading Love Not Cheaply by Giancarlo Malchiodi→
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