Short Stories

The Fringes of Memory

It was exactly as I had left it, folded neatly and wrapped in white tissue paper, stored at the top of a plastic crate in my basement.

Before the Canopy

Rachael stood at the window and inhaled the warm breeze that danced into her room, toying with her hair, still faintly damp, its ends clumped together in bonds of moisture.

Let’s Bench

I didn’t think he would go home. He stood at the door with his jacket hung carelessly over his arm and talked to you like he was never going to leave; like you were the only two people in the world; like it was his home, not mine.

Need some help with the vocab? This glossary might help…