Author: reckonreview

Glitter Shit

Fiction by Gabrielle McAree After swallowing half a bottle of cough syrup, Alex asks if I want to shave my head. I shrug my shoulders in indifference so he can make the decision for me. Our mother used to say my hair was the one “pretty” thing about me. I shove a handful of cold […]

Ruth

Fiction by Dan Crawley Her upper body bows over a pile of Scratcher games in the middle of the bed. She’s wielding a quarter on a bright red two dollar ticket. “Goddammit,” she mutters and starts to work furiously on another. I stand near the edge of the mattress. I might as well be acres […]

Osmosis

Fiction by Sara Hills The guy who wants to date my daughter shows up an hour late, swings his long hair like a cape and brings my daughter a square bottle of whisky with fruit in it, not flowers or an apology for being late but whisky and yes, I roll my eyes even though […]

Polish

Creative Nonfiction by Meredith McCarroll Box turtles lived in the woods above our house. Our dog, Alphie, roamed the neighborhood and returned home covered in spurs, with muddy paws and snout, with bloated ticks standing on end. Alphie carried these turtles to the front door and dropped them gently for us to see. Mom found […]

Family Portrait

Fiction by Michael Bettendorf The portrait on the dusty mantle was of a family who didn’t own new cars and never would. Flannel-clad and wearing their good jeans, the family sat uncomfortably in a studio worth more than their house. They wore polyester smiles and were told if they worked hard enough, they could accomplish […]

Sweet Fruit

Creative Nonfiction by Karen Luke Jackson You ate that first one and its flesh was sweetLike thickened wine: summer’s blood was in itLeaving stains upon the tongue                                       Seamus Heaney, “Blackberry-Picking” The summer my mother was five, she and her older brother Buck went blackberry picking. Working along a fence row, they filled a pail and a cup […]

Casual Savior

Fiction by Amy Barnes I crucify Ken with sewing pins. One goes into each of his curved hands and another to his perpetually-ready-for-shoes flat feet. The popsicle stick cross I made in Sunday School buckles under his weight. I jab harder until he’s fully impaled. “That’ll teach you to ignore my prayers.” I tell him. […]