A Narrow Bridge by Avital Gad-Cykman
A Narrow Bridge by Avital Gad-Cykman I’ve sang this ancient song in moments my mouth started singing on its own,
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Author: Every Writer
Richard Edwards has a BFA in Creative Writing and Journalism from Bowling Green State University and an M.S. in Education from the University of Akron. Managing editor of Drunk Duck, poetry editor for Prairie Margins, reporter for Miscellany, Akron Journal, Lorain Journal, and The BG News. He has also worked as a professional writer and editor in the medical publishing industry for several years. For the last 15 years Richard has also taught literature and writing at the secondary and post-secondary levels. He works much of the time with at-risk students.
The Cold Sausages in my Neighbourhood by Owain Evans
I stood in the paddling pool. It was the first week of the summer holidays and mum was throwing the party she told dad she wouldn?t. My mum was everywhere, handing out drinks, but my dad was in a gap in the curtains, watching.
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“Hi” by Lauren K. Sweeney
Nine-oh-eight Glenview Road was the best part of carrying the mail. Ten blocks into my suburban trek, there she’d be, stretched out on a neon towel, sweet and slick as a glazed
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Araby by James Joyce
NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square groun
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The Star by H. G. wells
It was on the first day of the new year that the announcement was made, almost simultaneously from three observatories, that the motion of the planet Neptune, the outermost of all the planets that wheel about the sun
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A Dream of Armageddon by H.G. Wells
The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly in spite of the urgency of
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A Moonlight Fable by H. G. Wells
A Moonlight Fable by H. G. Wells There was once a little man whose mother made him a beautiful suit
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The Rusted Swing Set by Sheila Good
The Rusted Swing Set by Sheila Good She folded the morning newspaper. Her old bones creaked as she stood leaning
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The Moth by H. G. Wells
Probably you have heard of Hapley—not W. T. Hapley, the son, but the celebrated Hapley, the Hapley of Periplaneta Hapliia,
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The Diamond Maker by H. G. Wells
Some business had detained me in Chancery Lane nine in the evening, and thereafter, having some inkling of a headache,
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