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We claw over earth, unfurling flowers, knit so close we know power.

Of the sixteen candidates only eight would make the final cut.

I care only about the little body wiggling in that plastic bassinet.

Our dog had held down what we had by pressing his belly to the floors.

Ira and Ada are stepsiblings. Within a month they were sleeping together.

Frail as a breath, it broke at once, leaving a tiny kiss in my fingers.

We want no truck with death. Not now while we’re busy feasting on figs.

I felt awful about imposing on him, but I was desperate to see the Derby.

Despair: Janet Burroway’s first Narrative Magazine six-word story.

I was creating art instead of counting beans like everyone else.

There were women everywhere, all naked or nearly naked.

The neighbor needs his blaring-music his car-cocoon of sound

A rifle, empty shells, the remains of a man, a bullet through his chest.

I wanted to tear away at the fabric of my pants, dig open my skin.

My husband barely noticed, while I felt the sharp bite of her words.

The streets were filled with couples and families on their way home.

I am determined to praise my particular world, so I must praise you.

Two softened reeds of rosemary pair, and spin in the white velouté.

There is beauty in the way she looks at me over the kitchen table.

She stared back at me, a toddler almost hidden in the folds of her skirt.

I have to wait till day to tell you that you’ve sunk down below sea level.

The rich man adorns himself and the elegant man gets dressed.

The blade was buried to the hilt in the outside corner of his left eye.

Here we were, seventeen, trapped by the sheer number of bodies.

The illusion is so complete that it seems the world has been re-created.

All this while, I am eating the apple in this careless moment of life.

My door overlooks a jade stream, the stillness of dawn drives cares away.

Everything comes down to the lightning. Nothing is ever by chance.

It’s like listening to the snow falling before sticking out your tongue.