Alarm. Traffic. Meetings. Drinks. Insomnia. Die a little more. Repeat.
Greg Hill is an experimental poet, a flash fiction writer, and an adjunct professor of English in West Hartford, Connecticut. His work has appeared in Six Sentences, The Writing Disorder, …
I don’t tend to finish many things that I start. I am eager to however. I want to finish what I start. It frustrates me when I don’t. It depresses me much of the time that I don’t. But it …
Rumor abounded. I could not find the original mouth for it. They said all manner of things. I cringed to think I was the heroine of the story. I never ran home that night, leaving the blasted slipper behind. I …
Emmanuel’s job was boring. He had already ridden the 200 meter line of railroad track 5 times that day. But he didn’t complain. He had only been in New Brunswick for about six months, and he didn’t want to give …
Jerry’s bent on tossing him out. It’s not something mothers are good at. He’s not even here half the time. And he hasn’t been stealing from us, at least I don’t think so. It’s the drugs – the usual culprit. …
I was never one who understood the appeal of the road less traveled. I had no interest in bouncing along an unknown pitted path, dust and gravel spewing in every direction, in search of some precarious destination. The allure of …
The commercial street in my town was busy, littered with youth on Valentine’s Day. Youth buying something, youth cuddling with each other and youth engaged in bargaining. Senior and middle-aged citizens were stared upon that day. The coffee shop in …
He cannot cook without washing his hands.
To him, food and cooking are like inseparable lovers. His kitchen skills will tell you how much he knows about making love.
The way he stirs his meal to make it tender and …
