The Properties of Glass
by Lois J. Peterson
My father died at lightning's hand one summer evening as he exercised his dogs in the fields above the town. I was in the garden bending to hoe peas and beans, hilling potatoes, picking aphids from tomatoes, when the sky darkened and the winds rose in a sudden squall. I hurried inside, leaving the door ajar in order to hear the rain on the stone tiles as I waited for the click of the dogs' nails and the pounding of my father's feet on his return.

Thursday
by Zdravka Evtimova
Bakalov started caressing her and Beth was scared by his dry palms moving rapidly all over her, his unnatural quick fingers planting warts in her skin as they touched her. The experience was all the more unpleasant because of the question that Bakalov kept constantly asking her, "Does it feel good?"