Author: Every Writer

Over and Out by Julie Morgan King Simon parked the scooter and jogged up the stairs. He felt as light

It was my friend Usha who introduced me to the new arrival in our locality. The astrologer was old, looked wise and he wore a saffron robe. He sat on a charpoy under a banyan tree, sheaves of paper stacked under his folded legs. A well fed green parrot cackled inside a rusted cage. Women of different shapes and sizes, huddled together close to him on a coir mat battling the summer heat.

My father, Oliver, is busy unloading all our belongings from our myriad luggage. He?s as robotic as the Automatons he crafted to help us with the move. At least they make beeping noises when they need re-charging. Then again, he had always been a silent man. But you?d think him a zombie since the passing of his wife, my mother Eleanor

At the end of the shift, he pushed a crumpled nondescript envelope containing three twenty dollar bills into my palm, but I left feeling empty-handed; he told me I didn?t get the job.

I pause on the fifth step, pursued by no one. And nothing to see, except a painting on the wall of a man wearing my floral nightgown, Colt 45 in hand, a glossy finish. A lousy painting, nothing but an exact reproduction of the last photograph I took of him. Is there nothing left for the imagination anymore? You project a photo slide onto a canvas, then you just fill it in with paint. But it?s so lifelike I have an instant?s reflex to whisk myself out of harm?s way, my head down low, to duck the bullets. But no bullets come, they?ve disappeared, chronologically speaking.

Off The Page ?by Ren?e Hankins ?We haven?t been in one novel in the last five months. Not one.? Binky,

? Gone ?by Ronald Robert Moore   Joe and Sparky ambled between the linear rows of orange trees. Joe proudly

I walk out of the paper factory all sweaty and pissed off. My tattoo-covered arms are dripping with dirty sweat. My long hair and beard are full of dust and bits of raw paper as tiny as gnats. It is always the same at the paper factory in the summer time. By day?s end I am sweaty and pissed.

She was pretty as the Sierra Madres in winter, leaving her girlfriends behind to sip their beers. The boy she danced with couldn?t rope calves much less break broncos, while she could have ridden bulls into the ground. I sipped Bourbon and watched her rhinestones shimmer, her hips sharp enough to rip denim.