Category Archives : Prose Open Contest


We the Dogs by Rachel Richardson

    We the dogs once had longer names: Commission Chairman Apple of My Eye, Sweets and Candy King’s Stunner, Velvet Princess Who’s The Boss. Once, we ran. We were dressed, muzzled, and we ran wild and around, always around, always around, our teeth behind the leather forever reaching. We ran. We were born fast […]


Transfinitude by CB Anderson

  Luis was preparing a paper. It was February, cold in the evenings when he walked home through thin air to the Central Square condo he shared with his wife and infant son. In June he would present his work at the American Mathematics Society in Baltimore and, if all went well, he’d be up […]


Loving Cows by Barbara Felton

    “You’ve got to name her Dottie,” says Gar, a volunteer helper, nodding toward the cow in the chute, a beautiful white cow covered with black spots.  “Done,” I say jotting it down.  I have my own naming convention based on the cow’s mother’s name, or where we bought the cow, or what I […]


On the Way by Diana Radovan

    2011 You are in Banff National Park, Canada. It is a day in summer, a day like any other. It is your last day here. Summer is coming to an end. Tomorrow your visa will expire. Today you are here, tomorrow you will be gone. Everything has been packed. Your identity too. Your […]


The Ones We Turned Into Queens by K.K. Fox

    Every girl who was any girl left school early that year to get her hair done for prom, even crippled Charlie Todd, whose hair had finally grown back after that car accident. We thought it was nice that she was still going to prom after being paralyzed and all. She stared at the […]


Path of the Ground Birds by J.L. Cooper

    Here comes Julian, rounding the bend from his bedroom to the hall, fresh from the hospital and a quick change of clothes. Trauma surgeons aren’t supposed to be confused about what to do next, but this is where he stalls. The paths in front of him lead to the front door, atrium, and […]


My Father, the Swimmer by Bernard Horn

Summer, 1952        I don’t remember clearly the coming or the going, the short walk at your side from the rented room or bungalow to the beach and back, my hand lost in yours, my legs scurrying to keep up.  What does stay in my mind is sitting on the top pipe railing on the […]