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Fiction

When They Came To Us

We went to sleep, and in the morning they were here. We saw them on our screens as they emerged from a grove of trees a hundred miles west of us. Their ship had crashed. It was made of a rose-gold metal and looked like a claw with a broken tip. Within hours the government had moved these beings — the “blues,” we eventually came to call them — to a holding station outside the nearest city. There we could watch them whenever we wanted, because of the cameras in each room.

By Debbie Urbanski August 2016
Readers Write

Doors

A fire drill, an ancient site, a magical opening

By Our Readers June 2015
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Laughter Club

It’s not surprising that trauma is the number-one killer of people under forty, but it had never been so obvious to me before I worked at a hospital.

By Peter Mountford June 2015
Readers Write

Being Alone

Running away, getting married, eating at the food court

By Our Readers March 2014
Fiction

My Sister, The Writer

My sister is a writer. She writes terrible things about me. She thinks she is telling the family secrets, but we all think she’s hysterical.

By Jenny Bitner January 2005
Readers Write

Eavesdropping

Brothers, no-kidding eyes, bean holes

By Our Readers April 2001
Fiction

For The Man Upstairs

Without hesitating, I carried the pie out into the hallway, and climbed the flight of stairs to the third floor, where I knocked boldly on the man’s door. Not a sound from inside. I breathed deeply; the air seemed thinner up here. While I waited, I examined the way the purple syrup had bubbled over the browned pastry. After a minute I set the pie down before the threshold and turned to leave.

By Margaret Hutton June 1998