
HOW TO TELL A LOVE STORY by Wendy BooydeGraaff
These two are not young, not rom-com blow-dried and fresh. One of them has an eye with a filmy sheath over the iris, and the eye also wanders, preventing the long lovers’ gaze.

These two are not young, not rom-com blow-dried and fresh. One of them has an eye with a filmy sheath over the iris, and the eye also wanders, preventing the long lovers’ gaze.

My husband lost the finger in a card game, then his hosts kept it and bequeathed it to your institution.

I watched a moth crawl toward me on the concrete. One of its wings was damaged; I had a strong impulse to crush it with my boot.

Killing a shark is always personal. The shark ate your wife. The shark ate your son.

Writers who seem to want to write a commercial screenplay in prose strike me as the least interesting sort. The same goes for all attempts at translating cinematic terminology to prose.

There hadn’t been this much excitement since the boys came home from war with their uniforms and their little triangular hats. They’d been shipped off again.

I pull up hard and dredge out a congealed braid of hair the length of an arm. Horrified, I keep pulling and it just keeps coming.


My mother is bursting at the seams and I am watching her stitching begin to give.

For now he made his home in men. Or rather, for a time, they lodged in him while he saved up seed money.