(Palabras means Words in Spanish)





Short Stories and Prose



Prose Meditation: Fainting in a Field of Poppies:
William John Ure, Killed in Action September 04, 1916.

by Hugh Burton

That is what it said on the tag I found in the back of a drawer in the old dresser but it is not what happened. According to my Uncle Bill, that was the tag that was attached to the big toe of his right foot when he was left at the Flanders field hospital on that date. His lungs were scoured and his heart was irreparably damaged by the gas, his hearing seriously compromised from the concussive blast of countless exploding shells but he was not dead, at least not in the sense the tag reported.  


Diary of A Woman's Arctic Journey
by Misty Santana


It was during the last of my years as a single mother that I sought out employment on an Arctic icebreaker, a Canadian Coast Guard Ship, from the Port of Halifax. We, my last child and I, lived in a small cabin over looking Lochaber Lake in the hills of Nova Scotia about twenty miles south of Antigonish which is near Cape Breton. 


Tales From The North
by Ravenwind

I looked out of the window in my room towards the long winding coastline.  It was my work season and I was at Tin City, Long Range Radar Station located on the northeast coast of Alaska.  The usual fog lingered along the coast as a scanty breeze moved the fog inland ever so slightly.  I had been longing for a walk and a chance to explore the shore for new treasures, which may have washed up during the last reckless storm.  It was Sunday and my only day off from the many long hours of work during the last week.  I remember telling myself that no matter what the weather was like on Sunday, I was going to go beach combing.


by Lino Leitao

(Accident first appeared in THE MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW in 1988, and was later republished in Short Story International, issue 86)       

I was sitting opposite her in the bus that goes from Dorval to downtown. My head was buried in the Gazette, absorbing the editorial column on Free Trade. I lifted my head to ponder the points the editorial had made. If Free Trade were to become an issue in the coming election, how would I cast my vote?  As I was trying to make up my mind, I saw her staring at me. She smiled, as if she had known me before. She was glowing with a smile of recognition. There was no doubt in my mind now that she had known me somewhere. But where?  Free Trade was blown away from my mind. I racked my brains.  She gently tapped me on my knees and said:

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Flying Solo
by Hugh Burton

Frank Stevens banked his newest acquisition, the twin engine Piper Apache toward the final approach to runway one-A, listening attentively to the sweet mutter of its throttled back engines and the softening rush of the air over the sleek body. He fine tuned the trim, extending the flaps a fraction more as the runway ahead began rising just a bit too fast. This was when he was happiest, when he felt one with his plane, when he could guide it with a few deft, well practiced moves to a landing where the transition from air to ground was as seamless as it was now. 



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