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Meditating

By Z.Z. Boone

Except for the blood pressure, Parisi is a healthy seventy-five-year-old. He swims at the Y four mornings a week, his spine is straight, he maintains the 34-inch waist he carried through college. His mind is sharp; he reads historical novels and sees an occasional play, and he can still knock out the Sunday Times crossword without having to wait a week for the solution.

Reading by Example

by Meagan Jones

As a writer, you read. You read a lot. Don’t try to get out of it (yes, you)! It’s impossible. You’ll read good things, bad things, crazy things, and generally, (if you study English or Creative Writing), a mish-mash of words spewed forth by some person long since gone from this world (looking at you, Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Virginia Woolf).

Plot? What of It?

By Meagan Jones

Two people walk into a bar.

One says, “I’ll have a glass of H20, please.”

The second says, “I’ll have a glass of H20, too.”

The second person dies.

Twain, Found In the Ruins

by Matthew Campbell

“My kind of loyalty was loyalty to one’s country, not to its institutions or its officeholders. The country is the real thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing; it is the thing to watch over, and care for, and be loyal to; institutions are extraneous, they are its mere clothing, and clothing can wear out, become ragged, cease to be comfortable, cease to protect the body from winter, disease, and death.”

                   ― Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

Self-Critique: The Red Pen in Your Hands

By Meagan Jones

I firmly grip the red pen, but my hand’s shaking, and the pen spills drops of red ink on the freshly printed paper. I think vaguely about how there have been studies about red pens – how they negatively affect the human psyche. Red, scribbled all over a paper, is a student’s worst nightmare.

Aluminum and Gold

By Elizabeth Kane

[This story is the official winner of the Fall 2017 Flash Fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]

She would’ve gone anywhere. Her tap shoes scraped the pebbly sidewalk, the tulle on her skirt fluffing in the cool wind. The light from her dance studio blinked out down the street as her teacher locked the door.

Transparencies

By M.J. Iuppa

[This story is a runner up in the Fall 2017 flash fiction contest, “200 in 2 Weeks”]
No one suspected that she’s the one who said, so long. Until
someone called—the sudden blast of the cell phone, ringing
like Paul Revere, like Chicken Little fearing the sky’s falling.

Workshops and Critiques: All in the Life of A Piece

You sit in a white-walled classroom, fidgeting in your seat. A cluster of tables is in front of you, and fourteen other people sit around them, staring at stapled sheets of paper: your paper. It contains your fiction story.  

Two weeks earlier, you had typed away at your keyboard, word after word, feeling like a genius. The story was perfect. A masterpiece. You couldn’t believe how amazing your talent was.