By Jeri Smith-Ready I always swore I’d throw a party when I got my first rejection letter from a publisher. Imagine how lucky I felt when it arrived on my birthday. One party, two stoned birds. My writer friend Rob was the only person at my celebration who...
by Ray Murray Bursting through the Detroit Night, on I-96 at precisely 55 per, cars ripping past in the left lane, doing seventy plus, tracking the eased curves past the neon — enormous electric elegy to the big three, curving north, then east, then southeast,...
by Adam Browne Mr Vale was allergic to advertising. Even the mildest of ads caused him severe discomfort, afflicting his skin with sharply demarcated roseate areas like some unknown species of sunburn, as though he’d been sunbathing in the curdled glimmer of a...
By Laura C. Alonso Laura is a returning writer to sfwp.org. You can check out her previous work, Honey, in our 2001 Finalists column. Laura’s bio is available in our Authors section. * * * We see only the results which a man’s choices make out of his raw...
by Gabriella Herkert Marty wore whorehouse red to the funeral. The cold December wind sliced at her but she refused to take refuge behind crossed arms or slumped shoulders. The muddy ground sucked voraciously at her three-inch high heels but she walked erect, striding...
