We write. We revise.
I dump some charcoal into the belly of the Weber grill and ignore the briquettes tumbling onto the grass. I douse the pile with lighter fluid and for a moment I consider how easy it would be to squirt down the side of Momma’s exterior bedroom wall and throw a match against the curling asbestos siding. Poooooof! A page of angry flames, hungry to finish off what I cannot. We lean back in our chairs and watch bright sparks float upwards and tinsel the night sky.
~Excerpt from a short story in progress by Nancy Nygard
What kind of love are we talking about? If we’re talking about the kind where you squander yourself and your beautiful heart, where you bleed and bleed over someone and cry yourself dry, and then have to borrow someone else’s tears because you’ve run out of your own, then I’m not writing about that. Especially not the kind where you’re taken by the smile and kiss of a con man, mistake the dash and sparkle of dime store tinsel for diamonds. Forget it, I’m not writing about that kind.
~Excerpt from essay written by Therese Rossi
Harold stared at the alarming headline plastered across the front page. Extra-terrestrials Invade New Jersey–Are Secretly Running the State Government. She turned the front cover towards her in response to Harold’s stare and clucked her tongue. “When I was a kid Martians never went beyond Arkansas, now they’re everywhere. What’s this world coming to?” She shook her head. “But I don’t follow politics. Politicians are just a bunch of hoodwinksters if you ask me, always trying to scare us into letting rich people keep their money. Might as well let the Martians run the place.” Her face disappeared behind the tabloid with a sigh.
~Excerpt from San Joaquin Suicide Hotline, a novel-in-progress by James Albert