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million writers award: results 1–7 of 7

Weed Man  by JAMES TERRY

8 August 2007
Vol. 7, No. 2
editors' select

The summer I was ten we had a terrible heat wave. You could hear the transformers exploding on the other side of the tracks. Old people were dying in their sleep. Everyone was afraid the weed men wouldn't come and we would all be devoured by weeds. I had more faith. Nothing stoked the fire of a weed man's soul like a battle with the elements. I'll never forget the time I saw a weed man working in a thunderstorm, water up to his ankles, lightning felling trees a hundred yards away, and the weed man oblivious to all but the weeds.

Hand Shaking Jesus  by NOAH MCGEE

20 August 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2

She hadn't said anything about the cancer, even though Rayna had talked to her every day.

Darryl's 1890  by TRIPP READE

21 November 2005
Vol. 5, No. 3

The antiques on the wall were real, not reproductions like you see in chain joints these days. In fact, even the seating was antique: scarred tables from long-demolished hotels and diners, railcar berths, an old-timey elevator.


10 November 2005
Vol. 5, No. 3
editors' select

When Alethea came over after school she wanted to know if my grandmother was a witch.

Petrovesky and Pollarbywall  by CRISPIN ODUOBUK

16 August 2005
Vol. 5, No. 2
editors' select

During the long holiday of 1978, a man named Petrovesky came to live in our neighbourhood. Petrovesky was a giant who always wore a long black coat and carried a short black cane with a gold tip. He had a long nose, big blue eyes and a red beard that reached all the way down to his knees. He also had giant wings…

In Search Of  by SARAH LAYDEN

2 June 2004
Vol. 4, No. 2
editors' select

His cubicle wall shuddered for the third time in the last hour, and he automatically began fishing fallen thumbtacks and papers from the crevice where the wall met his desk. He'd tried talking to her. He'd tried making a joke of it. But no matter what he said, Patricia Trumble's enthusiasm, speed, and girth propelled her rolling desk chair into their shared wall space repeatedly each day.

Closet Fiction  by TOM BRADLEY

2 March 2003
Vol. 3, No. 1

"I would like to—I mean, I do write what I call closet fiction—"

Dr. Edwine was pontificating at his own reflection in a brandy Alexander puddle (a man his size had no fear of a ladies' beverage redounding poorly upon his masculinity).


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