Coming Home at Midnight to the Farm by Donal Mahoney
Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the school bus took me around for years. I can see in the headlights the wildflowers ringing the curve like a necklace
Continue readingClassic and Contemporary Stories
Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the school bus took me around for years. I can see in the headlights the wildflowers ringing the curve like a necklace
Continue readingPaul Finnigan is a short story writer from Ottawa, Canada. He has a collection of short fiction that has been published in both Canada and the United States
Continue readingI need to know if Di Fara has the best pizza in New York.
Continue readingThe mourners dispersed from the graveside in groups of twos and threes. They paused to pay their condolences to the family, some shaking hands
Continue readingIt is louder than a train passing only inches from our faces. It splashes in our ears, surrounding our eardrums. Its continuous roar is like nothing else
Continue readingDanny fixated his eyes upon a bursting star of grandiose fireworks, sparkling with eye-catching colors outside the bedroom window. The reflective waters outside captured
Continue reading“Step into the light, I dare you,” Marshall said as he struggled to contain his laughter.
Continue readingAnd that’s why he would have called me, thief.
The Atlantic licked my toes as I stood on the beach, jar in hand. The jar contained a ring along with a photo of us.
Continue readingI stared at the computer screen, the recipe for blueberry cobbler staring back at me as my daughter’s voice, plaintive as a puppy’s whine, pleaded, “Please, Mom, why can’t I go?
Continue readingThrough the open window above the tub, an outcry reaches us from the world. I sink my battleship, but it pops right back up to the surface. More shouts follow.
Continue reading