The Journal

The Gleaners by Marjorie Robertson

It all started when Baba came home from Cairo. That was when you got those crazy ideas, they say. At night in the coolness of our stone house the soft roar of trucks on the highway to Rabat came and went like ocean waves, and we whispered to one another through the curtain separating our rooms.

Montreal, Eventually by Gary Berg

The old man behind the wheel wore a John Deere baseball cap and eyed me. “Montreal, that’s a long way from Vegas.” I pushed my backpack down between my feet and looked for a seat belt. “I’m learning that.”

Sinker by R.S. Paulette

See, my father was alien to me, with his barrel chest and his big game magazines spread across his coffee table. He was the kind of man who bought the same baseball cap he saw Bill Dance wear on television. How he could stand smoking these horrible, unfiltered Camels—which, incidentally, gave him a thick, hacking cough—I’ll never know.

Rejected Buzzfeed Questions by Paul Lander

Which character are you from the sitcom Joey?

Hunger by Tony Press

Jenny falls asleep mid-murmur while my eyes trace the ceiling shadows. Her body curves outward from mine. Under her pillow, our left hands join. Her other hand, the only uncovered part of her, ventures a few inches into the night…

Chuan by Cathy Adams

Chuan was angry, so angry she forgot her English. She ran from her house thinking in her own tongue, not his, not when she was this angry. She was in a town where she couldn’t get lost. Or rather, she shouldn’t. It was dangerous to get angry and lost in a town that was his, the one he grew up in, his people, his country…

A Town Without Sequins by Zak Block

If the E train passes through Elmhurst station, does it not stand to reason that no train whatsoever stops there? I had this revelation long after I’d discovered that not only is Philadelphia an hour’s leisurely drive from the heart of Manhattan, but so are Washington, D.C., Boston and Baltimore. Cincinnati, Chicago, Indianapolis, Detroit, about two hours. Albeit that I’m never going to see these places, still is this incalculably useful information…

Secrets by Robert Mundy

At sixty-five, Mark Armstrong was the same weight he’d been as a high school point guard—one-hundred-fifty-five pounds on a lean five-foot-eleven frame—though, as he liked to joke, the distribution was different…

Versions Of This Year by R.S. Paulette

As the sun would rise on placid Saturday mornings, I would take the little row-boat with the trawling motor out towards the east and wait there, still, letting the water ebb away from the boat in consistent concentric circles, lapping its way towards shore. Sitting there, an unread book in my hand, I would watch the sun rise along the horizon, begging me to follow it along until I struck land…

Devil’s Thumb by Gemma Cooper-Novack

By: Gemma Cooper-Novack – Posted: August 4, 2014

James wanted to blame Natasha for this trip, but the truth was he couldn’t remember whose idea it had been. When the prospective debt of rehab became more than either of them could handle…

  • The SFWP Journal was founded in 2002 and is home to an eclectic group of authors. The journal's mission is to recognize excellence in writing and provide a voice for the SFWP community. Find out more about us right here. Interested in writing for SFWP? Please visit the submissions page for more information.

  • Archives

  • Categories

  • Tags