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FICTION

By Steve Amick
Date of publication: May 14, 2014
It was because of Jaws that she never went back to the water, ocean-wary at nine, turning away from the beach to the sweatier sides of summer: pumping down back roads on a banana seat bike, clinging to the sliver of shade tilting between the Dairy Twist and the clam shack, her back to the wall, safe against the cool cinder blocks, staring out at the distant shore and the tiny, happily fat. And, of course, there was always the library.
By Ilse Munro
Date of publication: May 2, 2014
                        “Stop it,” I said, but no one heard me. My mother had insisted on installing parquet floors immediately after moving into the drab Worden Street duplex, bought so we could live in one side while paying the mortgage with money made from the other. My father had agreed to her impractical project to preserve the peace. So there they were, banging nails into boards every moment they were free of their factory jobs. Once they had finished the rental side, they started on ours, making it clear to everyone within earshot we’d never return to that apartment on Ethel Street I loved so much.
by Jessica Roeder
Date of publication: September 12, 2013
                            1. In the apartment, Edna was without her baby. But she was a little crazy then, and sometimes she led herself to believe the baby wasn’t gone. She could cradle an imagined infant the way she’d once cradled her sisters. The eyes were dark blue, the lashes and brows blond, and the top of the nose had an inward dip like Daniel’s. The fingernails were thin and would not protect the fingers, and yet they had white rims and half-moons at the cuticles. They grew and would have to be clipped. The fine swirl of hair would need to be washed. It was a matter of proportion. She reminded herself of these things.
By Nicole M. Taylor
Date of publication: November 28, 2012
Vox ipsa et frigida lingua, "Ah! miseram Eurydicen," anima fugiente, vocabat; "Eurydicen," toto referabant flumine ripae.        —Virgil E’en then his trembling tongue invok’d his bride; With his last voice, "Eurydice," he cried, "Eurydice," the rocks and river banks replied.        —Dryden
By Randall Silvis
Date of publication: February 28, 2012
We lived in the country in a small yellow house, with large yards in the front and back, woods on all sides, our closest neighbors a half mile away and as eager to be left alone as we were. The exterior of the house was in need of painting and there was only one chair in the living room but we seldom had visitors then and one chair was all we needed when we sat holding one another in the evening while listening to music. We had a big, frisky and sometimes obtrusively affectionate Irish Setter named Berrigan, who on hot summer afternoons when we sunbathed behind the house never failed to warn of the approach of a meter reader or salesman, and who with his resonant growl would keep the intruder at bay until we could pull on our clothes and prepare ourselves for the world again.
By Jim Daniels
Date of publication: January 26, 2011
I remember only one vacation in my sixteen years on Planet Detroit, though my parents had photographic evidence of me as a baby on the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes looking marooned, disconsolate, in the middle of all that sand. It could’ve been the surface of the moon, a photo doctored like my father claimed they did at NASA.