Short Story
Tuesday Is For Tuna
Tuesday is tuna day. How do I know this? Well, this is sanctuary life where everything is the same every week and I've been here for eight years. Without fail, we've had tuna every Tuesday for each of those eight years.
By Special Little Whiskers Kitten Sanctuary2 days ago in Fiction
Someone's Father or Uncle
Amy stepped of the train as the Broad Street Subway let her off at Philadelphia's City Hall stop and mixed her way into the more than 100 other people who were all moving like a flood to the steps. While most moved down the interchange concourse that lead to the “L” train, she moved towards the escalator in the other direction, along with a small handful of other people that took her out into the City Hall courtyard.
By Timothy E Jones2 days ago in Fiction
The Nana Adventures: A Day at the Amusement Park
Nana believes that every great explorer needed a day filled with wind-in-the-hair courage and cotton-candy joy. So when she announced, "Pack your brave hearts-we're going to the amusement park," the house practically shook with excitement.
By Tabatha Nabors2 days ago in Fiction
Dr. Seuss Wrote Children's Books But He Had No Children
If I asked you who Theodor Seuss Geisel was, you would probably shake your head in dismay. However, if I told you I was referring to Dr. Seuss, you would say, "Oh, yes, my children have books written by Dr. Seuss."
By Margaret Minnicks2 days ago in Fiction
The Nana Adventures: A Trip to the Dentist
Nana believed that even the smallest errands could become brave adventures. So when nine-year-old Eli learned he had a dentist appointment on Thursday afternoon, she clapped her hands softly and said, "Well then, Commander Eli, looks like it's time for Operation Sparkle Smile."
By Tabatha Nabors2 days ago in Fiction
The 30 Percent Armor
My bathroom is a minefield I know by heart. Every tile under my bare feet has its own temperature, every bottle on the shelf its own weight and texture. This is my sanctuary, my little staging ground for practicing “normal” before I step out and put on the mask I’ve spent years carving. This morning is particularly rough. The fog in my left eye—the one that checked out years ago, a late-coming bill from a war injury that finally came due—has started bleeding into the right. A recent ablation did its job, but it left the world looking like a water-damaged oil painting. I see about thirty percent of reality. The other seventy? I fill that in with memory, gut instinct, and pure, raw spite.
By Feliks Karić2 days ago in Fiction
The Nana Adventures: A Day at the Zoo
Nana had a way of turning ordinary Saturdays into legendary expeditions. So when she stood in the kitchen doorway with her hands on her hips and declared, "Explorers, tomorrow we journey into the wild, "the five grandchildren knew something wonderful was coming.
By Tabatha Nabors2 days ago in Fiction
