Fiction & Flash Fiction

The woman in the photographs is your mother, but you do not recognize her. They are a  grainy version of...

Andrew was the boy who smelled like roses. All the time, unequivocally. We had four classes together, and I always...

Dust motes danced in pale shafts of late-afternoon sun slanting through the open drapes of the parlor windows. Less affected...

Treasure Buried Deep The trees of the forest behind our house smelled like black hickory smoke on the day my...

I hung up the kitchen phone.  Bert would need that coffee now.  I checked his Buckeye Grandpa mug: cool enough....