the midnight snack

by Lexi Norjka

You dispose of your half-eaten tray and gather your bag, mumbling farewell to the guy behind the counter, who looks utterly relieved by your departure and wheels out his mop and bucket before you’re even out the door.

by Karen Kwasny

Rocks in a stream bed, I think. 
Pebbles, shells, eggs.
One by one until the loaves are gone,
the baking dish full.

by Michelle DeLiso

In their lilliputian kitchen, Papa ate whatever Nana served, including Swansons. He dined stoically, a strong-jawed man with a fork.

by Natasha Zarin

But almost winning is sometimes better—daydreaming about what I would do differently next time, and creating foolproof plans in my mind to ensure glorious victories against my opponents for the next weekend.

by Lydia Prendergast

for the citrus—
that my mother keeps in the chilled barrel—
giggling in desperate hope for the mere noise that even cacophony

by Mugdha Joshi (aka thefeministwriterwhogoesmeh)

You know that it’s good food you’re eating when it has a wonderful fulfilling quality and there is a lingering feeling on your taste buds, making you long for more. I could go on and on about how good good food actually is, but then I’d be missing the point.

by Ann Graham

You tug and drag, scratching the floor, the priceless antique out onto your balcony. Electrified, you raise the lid to let loose the children’s sobbing, begging for their mothers.

by Colleen Maynard

I twist off a ripe fig from the tree leaning against the house.
It loosens easily, spittles
a white foam on my hand. Another twist.

by Caroline Misner

I was powdered with dust, a gritty gauze, that clung
to my sunburnt shoulders and wormed into the strands
of my hair and crusted my face, tacky with sweat
and syrupy streaks of juice.

Art by Sarah Simon