Nonfiction

    LIFE WITHOUT A SPATULA By Lisa Reily

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    LIFE WITHOUT A SPATULAby Lisa Reily   My mother lay on her side in bed, dying, and rummaging as best she could through her bottom bedside drawer. It was full of cards from my...

    CURTAIN By Juli Nicewarner

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    MY ANCIENT ENEMYby Daniel Bailey My Nijinsky bird-feet seemed to be going over well in our first conversation that fall afternoon in 1973. I called them that because my...

    NEW BOY RULES By Joseph Eastburn

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    NEW BOY RULESBy Joseph Eastburn When my parents separated in 1962, they decided to send my older sister and me off to boarding school to get us out of...

    WHAT LIARS THEY ARE by Frank Kowal

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                                                           What Liars They Are!                                                            by Frank Kowal      It was 1954, and I was six years old, watching TV by myself on the floor...

    REAL IS THE RARER THING By Roger Topp

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    REAL IS THE RARER THINGby Roger Topp “It’s near checkout time and I need to escape the hotel without paying.” Imogen has abandoned me, never returning to the room...

    THE PHOTOGRAPHS by Anita Lekic

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    The Photographs Anita Lekic I enter the small jewelry shop in our little town.  There are two or three people ahead of me, hunched over the...

    ALEXA, PLAY RAIN by Michael Riordan

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    I have trouble sleeping these days. So, I ask my Alexa device to play re-created sounds of falling rain, which she mixes with some low-toned thunder. Nightly melatonin stopped working, so this...

    MY ANCIENT ENEMY By Daniel Bailey

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    RESTLESS RAMBLINGSby Sara Magruder  Complete and Utter NonsenseI sit in the living room at 1:30 am and begin writing. I know I am going to be tired and cranky in the morning, but...

    HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT By Michele Sprague

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    HE LOVES ME. HE LOVES ME NOTBy Michele Sprague Twenty years ago I couldn’t get enough of him. We talked for hours and never ran out of things to...

    HURRICANE MOON By Tony Whedon

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    HURRICANE MOONBy Tony Whedon The town where we had rented our cottage that summer when I was thireen, called Port Clyde, sat at the end of a long peninsula...