A Creative Space + Literary Magazine
Falling snow. Steady and soundless, like a clock ticking from within a void. Like running your fingers along the keys of a piano, but never pressing down. Camille likes to do that when his heart feels too hollow for music. He touches the smooth white silence. Camille is standing at the edge of an…
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Zack Taft tells us the following about himself, “Sitting here now, looking out the window onto the bare brick wall of the building next door. (I live in a compound of sorts- no, not a prison, smarty pants).”
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The painter sighed as he surveyed his newest project through the dusty windshield of his battered truck. This job, he thought, was going to take a lot longer than his original estimate. He reminded himself to never take another commission without first walking the ground. The area was mostly rolling hills etched with dry gullies.…
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One summer night on the family farm, in 1975, a lightning bug followed us inside. My mother switched off the overhead light so my two brothers and I could see the firefly better. Mesmerized, we crouched to watch the insect walk across the brown carpet as the tip of its body blinked a random sequence.…
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We like Autumn, Winter, and Spring. We like the way in Autumn it feels like each tree has its own fireplace, licks of flame dancing on the branches before they float down to the ground. We like the harshness of Winter, the cozy comfort of tucking ourselves away as the wind howls and the rain…
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Tell Gerardo he makes one fine salad. I don’t care if he gets it out of a jar, it’s the best creamy Italian in San Francisco. You’re new, aren’t you? I’ve been coming to Pinecrest for twenty-odd years. Nowadays you gals come and go. Always looking for something better. Don’t blame you. But it’s nice…
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A short story about two girls playing with dolls.
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A Lazy Sunday stroll by the lake turned into an epic adventure when Willy was attacked by an Ice Dragon near the Medieval Castle.
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My father’s cigar-smoking, or rather its imminent threat, had caused our banishment to the porch. After supper, Dad had taken a cigar from his shirt pocket with the practiced deliberation of an actor. Mom, recognizing the cue as hers, stood and began clearing the dishes. “Marcel,” she said, “you’re not going to smoke that…
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