November 13, 2011 One sip should be enough. One long sip should fill the burning hole in my stomach. But then after the first sip the hole gets bigger and burns harder. I need another. Pretty soon the beer is a joke, like trying to put out a brush fire with the leftover ice in a glass. I need something stronger.
November 13, 2011 You are out in the twilight of Wilmington when everything is blue and you are very tired so you drive and drive and drive and drive until the sky is red because pollution spreads this far, you know, and the radio in your car plays songs you didn't even know existed...
November 13, 2011 She has grown so fat that she spills out of her bedroom slippers. The swollen, cracked skin on the bottom of her feet scratches against the hardwood floors as she treads down the hall. When she reaches kitchen with its smooth ceramic tile floor the shuffling stops.
November 12, 2011 For Round 7 of our contest, we asked you to send us original works of fiction that have a character come to town and someone leave town. After reading more than 3,000 entries, we have picked our winner!
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November 12, 2011 Little Hossein was the first person I knew who died. We started calling him Little Hossein when Big Hossein moved down from the mountains to live with his brother Mohammed, our cook. Little Hossein was older than me, but just my size.
November 12, 2011 When dad and me came over the dunes, we saw the clot of boys down near the water, their naked suntanned legs blocking the guy who washed up on the beach overnight. Dad pushed his way in, and they let him since he's on the force even when he's not dressed like it.
November 10, 2011 Emma's frustration couldn't get her across the river fast enough. She blasted the radio to hear over the din of traffic. Her voice was silenced when a truck ahead smashed a compact into a van a few cars ahead.
November 10, 2011 The old man started it. In simpler days, when Martin was a boy, he and his father had been able to go to the airport and watch the planes take off and land from any gate they wished.
November 6, 2011 Three-Minute Fiction is All Things Considered's creative writing contest where our listeners submit an original short story that can be read in about three minutes — 600 words — or less. Next week our judge will announce the winner of Round 7, so we decided to catch up with past champions.
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November 4, 2011 Her nose drained down her lip, tried to freeze there, but dropped to a button on her coat. Winter's gravity pulled everything toward the sidewalk. She imagined stopping there, but the wind pushed her legs further down the street. Rusty pulled up in his truck, yanked his coat and briefcase toward him, and pled with her to accept the offer.
November 4, 2011 Today, it is a brownstone rowhouse with concrete steps. I stand on the second one and knock. The man who appears at the door wears jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. I tell him that my name is Moira, that I'm not from around here, that I'm hungry and in need of a place to sleep.
November 2, 2011 Marion's wife was obsessed with snow villages. She had begun collecting them three years prior, after their son entered rehab for the fourth time.
November 2, 2011 The train squealed to a stop. He waited for the doors to open, but only the one on the left obliged. He stepped on to the platform. Bitter air blasted his face and fingers. He tightened the strap of a lightly packed duffel bag that hung on his back, just below the shoulder blades.
October 30, 2011 When Tad's mother found she no longer needed sleep, they left town. It was full, she said, of dirty old men and devil worshippers. She drove north, away from the Mason-Dixon line. Tad wasn't scared. He rode in the back, between the blue fold-down seats, on a blanket that smelled like Sarah the Doberman.
October 29, 2011 We could've camped back in the junipers, two famished birds, a hairbreadth away from each other. Our language might've been more faithful; the lights might've been on in our thinking. We could've done without that edge, without that gaping hole, without that no-sound of the desert thrumming in our ears, stoning us in.
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