Short Story
Blindspot
This week on the Thomas Jefferson Hour, I turned the tables and interviewed David Swenson about the Repatriation Project of Frances Densmore’s audio recordings of Native Americans in 1911. The hand-cranked wax cylinder recordings of Densmore were instrumental in preserving Native American history during a time where promotion of Native American indigenous culture was at an all-time…
By DJ Nuclear Winterabout a year ago in Fiction
Date Night
Alright, so I got my phone out. On date night. But... in my defence, he did it first. I know that sounds childish. I know it does. But here's the thing. For me, date night has always been sacrosanct. I'm the one who puts my phone away, and pays my date my full attention.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Midnight at Mount Grace
June sat in the car a moment longer than necessary, engine off, hands curled loosely around the steering wheel like she wasn’t quite ready to let go. Outside, the trailhead sign for Mount Grace leaned slightly to the left. Only the edges were visible, half-sunk into a bed of goldenrod. The sun had dipped behind the tree line, leaving the woods lit by that strange in-between light. Neither day nor night, dusk and the long hush that came with it.
By Aspen Nobleabout a year ago in Fiction
After. Content Warning.
Content advisory, adult themes. Reader discretion is advised. -0- Stars danced before my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. Blissful sensation flooded through me, pleasure like a tidal wave crashing into my awareness. I pressed closer, body trembling as the breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped in a long, shuddering gasp.
By Alexander McEvoyabout a year ago in Fiction
The backyard
Matcha Lattes on Sundays, that was the current ritual. And, as we got older and the opportunities for late nights at the club turned into evenings with face masks, giggling about past nights at the club, which then became, “we need another face mask night,” we clung to the matcha dates.
By Athena Pajerabout a year ago in Fiction
Bees In The Honey
He saw the slightest glint of metal from across the valley, their signal to prepare, and offered his own quick glint in the midday sun. Sheathing his knife, Ranger Captain Grambel checked his bowstring one last time. It should have been in perfect order, he’d checked it at least four times today, but on this last inspection he saw it–the smallest of burrs attached just below the string nock. It was a little thing, and he pulled it off all the same.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
