The aquarium sat by the register, a glass cube gone cloudy with years of grease and cigarette smoke. Algae filmed the corners, and the filter rattled like it might give out at any second. I always chose the booth across from it, the one with vinyl patched in duct tape, so I could watch the fish drift in slow, half-hearted circles.

The state says the boxes are obsolete. That is the word on the work order clipped to my visor. OBSOLETE in block letters, as if the road itself signed off on it. I park on the shoulder and pull on gloves that still smell like last week’s fuel spill. The call box stands ten feet off the asphalt, sun-bleached yellow gone to the colour of old teeth. A little blue sign above it reads EMERGENCY with an arrow no one follows anymore.

There’s glitter in the sidewalk. Still. Years later. It’s pressed into the cracks like it grew there. Like joy tried to root itself in the concrete and stayed. I kneel beside it, careful not to disturb.

The first time I heard the story, I was eight. My uncle whispered it after supper while we swatted mosquitoes and picked fish bones clean. “The Skunk Ape lives where the swamp doesn’t end,” he said, pointing toward the cypress line where the sky thickened into night. “Smells like death. Walks like a man, only larger. Red eyes if you catch the light right.” I laughed the way children laugh at warnings, but I remembered how his finger trembled when he drew the cross...

The headline says my father baptized an alligator in the fountain outside Publix. FLORIDA MAN SAVES GATOR’S SOUL, STORE SECURITY NOT IMPRESSED.Someone cropped his face and added a halo. Someone else turned him into a Saint candle. A TikTok kid looped his prayer over a trap beat. The clip shows Dad in his church suit, cuffs rolled, shoes off, water rising around his shins. One hand on the gator’s back, the other raised to heaven. The gator looks half asleep. The crowd cheers. A manager waves a mop...

My father drank black Maxwell House from a repurposed Big Gulp cup, the kind with a faded NASCAR logo and a plastic straw he never used. Every morning, long before the world stirred, he filled it to the brim and cradled it between his knees as he drove to work. No cream. No sugar. Just heat, grit, and something close to devotion.

The one-hour photo smelled of vinegar and metal, the scent clinging to the back of my throat like it might stay there forever. My hands sweated inside the sleeves of my windbreaker as I slid the yellow Kodak envelope across the counter. The clerk, a man with nicotine-stained fingers, tore the seal with his teeth, holding the flap open like it was a wound. He flipped through the stack without looking at me, his mouth tight. “Most of these didn’t turn out,” he said. His voice was flat but no...

Every Christmas, we dress a rented mannequin and call it Uncle Ray. It comes from a party store off the highway, boxed in cardboard soft with grease. The tag reads DISPLAY UNIT. HANDLE WITH CARE. The clerk knows us now. He slides the box across the counter without a word, as if silence is part of the rental. The first year, it was a joke. Dad said, "We need someone to carve the ham." Mom propped the blank white body at the head of the table and tucke...

All Ruth saw was more attention. And when the wrong kind of attention showed up, people like her paid for it. The June heat shimmered off the sidewalks, rising in waves that blurred the edges of palm trunks and lampposts. Humidity pressed against Ruth’s skin as she stepped out of the motel’s back corridor, the scent of salt from Matanzas Bay mingling with the sweetness of blooming jasmine. Her uniform clung to her back, damp before she’d even begun her rounds.

The results are in! Here's who won this year's fiction contest.Read Bethany Bruno’s story, “No Swimming at Monson’s,” available online January 2, 2026 “I saw the opening line congratulating me and said, ‘Wait, no way.’ I reread the email just to be sure it was real,” says Bruno about when she was notified that her short story “No Swimming at Monson’s” won first place, online and print publication, and a $1,000 prize. “It felt like a dream come true for the little girl who used to write ‘books’ o...

Every December my family brings out the mannequin and dresses it in Uncle Ray’s flannel, boots, and watch, a winter ritual that began as a joke and softened into something we never named after he died. Tonight, the candles burn low on the dining table, their light thin as breath, and when everyone drifts to the living room, I stay behind in the hush, facing the figure we’ve filled with his things. The coat still carries a trace of cedar and cigarette smoke. The watch on its wrist ticks with a borrowed steadiness, the kind that makes you listen harder in the dark.

The road runs straight as a taut string. On both sides, fields make a green and white quilt. Cotton blooms into fists. Corn lifts thin flags that clatter in the wind. Summer heat shakes the edges of the asphalt. Vultures wheel overhead and settle on fence posts like sentries who do not blink. I drive this road often. Groceries. Daycare pickup. Library returns. A loop of errands that feels safe until it does not. The first time I noticed the bodies, I was late for work. A raccoon lay with its paws...

The first thing my mother left me was a jar. Wide-mouthed, Mason glass, cloudy at the rim. She pressed it into my hands the morning she stopped speaking. Her lips moved like pale paper fluttering in the wind. “Keep it closed,” she mouthed.  Inside: a moth, its gray wings frantic against the glass. Dust fell in tiny storms, coating the sides in a powdery script I couldn’t read. The air inside shimmered faintly, as if it carried a pulse of its own. I carried it home, tucked agains...

My daughter Frankie doesn’t say my name. She knows it. I’ve heard her whisper it at night, curled up in her toddler bed, when the house is quiet and the shadows stretch across the floor. “Mommy,” she breathes, and for a second I believe I’ve dreamed it. At night, behind her door, she practices. Soft words slip out like secrets, as if she’s testing them before anyone can hear. Pressure shuts her down. But in the dark, when no one is watching, her voice feels safe. In the daylight, I try. I kneel. I call to her. She turns to me, eyes bright, smile full, but I can tell she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. She opens her mouth like she’s going to answer, but instead I hear bits of “Old McDonald” or sounds that don’t quite form words.

It started with a palm frond. One of those thick, green giants that fan out over Florida yards like they own the place. My Uncle Bob ripped one clean off the tree, held it high over his head, and marched barefoot around the pool. Jimmy Buffett’s “Volcano” blared from the lanai speakers, steel drums skipping over sun-soaked chaos. Kids doing cannonballs, adults sloshing bourbon in plastic cups, and bathing suits doubling as dinner clothes. He said nothing. Just grinned and kept moving. We followed. Every one of us. Cousins dripping pool water, aunts in cover-ups, and the dogs trotting at our heels, nails clicking on the pavement as if they were tap dancing. The conga line snaked through the screen door, into the kitchen, and around the card table stacked with paper plates and Publix potato salad. No one asked why.

It’s 1:17 a.m., and I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen drinking Dr Pepper Blackberry out of the can like it’s medicine for a heartbreak I haven’t earned yet. I haven’t cried today, but I can feel it coming, crouched behind my molars. This beverage might be the gateway. The label promises “Delightfully Dark. Subtly Sweet,” which, coincidentally, is also how I described myself during a short-lived phase in college when I tried to brand myself as “the mysterious girl who reads Bukowski and wear...

The bell above the jewelry store door gives a soft chime as I step inside. The sound feels too gentle for what I have come to do. Rain slides down the glass behind me, distorting the lights of the parking lot. The air smells of polish and metal. Under the bright display cases, diamonds gleam like trapped lightning, each one waiting for someone to believe in it.

You were twenty-fourwhen your brain went silent.No dreams.No waking. But still they kept you warmbeneath the weight of wires,your skin bathed in fluorescent blue,your breath machine-fed. Not for you.For the small, curled possibility inside.They called it life,but what they meant was labor. They turned your bodyinto a hushed roomwithout windows,without voice. A vessel.A holding cell.Your name was Adriana.Say it aloud.Adriana Smith. Not “the mother.”Not “the mira...