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Lily hated Ray’s cancer. She couldn’t see it or cure it.

She’s a blushing peach waiting to be plucked by practiced hands.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

My brush dissects her slick-back black hair to expose ugly white.

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

Our spirits are as transparent as the gown my wife wears in bed.

It’s other things than the like of you would make a person afeard.

My mother used to cry in church seeing a child walk down the aisle.

The room barely fit a bed, a chest of drawers, and a rocker, all not hers.

We say America you are magnificent and we meant we are heartbroken.

Everything white is a white spider. The spider spins regardless of color.

“You could come, too! No one’s forcing you to go to fucking China.”

I imagined myself magnanimous, but now I see. I have been cruel.

There was one lease Homer Young wanted above all others.

First a mother puts her child to sleep, then the other way around.

After her divorce she took up with a cowboy named Wicks.

No matter how hard I played, it was like I was performing inside a vacuum.

You’re safe here. A prison might be the safest place to meet a man.

What can be done to interest a younger audience in fiction?

Robin Troy

Our griefs perceive what we dismiss: the slight give of stage boards.

I know that hairs
on my head go singly gray only
by night.

“We know what can happen,” Mike says. “We choose to do this.”

Lovers, a new set of six-word stories from Elizabeth Benedict.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

Marshall and Mrs. Checchi, it seemed, had this philosophy in common.

We could hear the parade three blocks before it arrived at our corner.

They’d developed Santa’s entire system, had written the code.

I hear my brother’s wife whisper, It’s her again. Let the machine get it.