Sara Kirschner / The Stonecoast Review Literary Journal

We broke up over a ghost. Or ghosts. Any sort of apparition might have served, I guess, but in the end it was the ghost of my father that caused us to divide our property and stop talking to each other … (continue reading)

A red blur goes by, kicking up brown and orange and yellow leaves. It crests the hill then pulls over, and the blond from those perfume ads cuts the engine and closes her eyes. Inhales. Exhales, drawing it out. Then opens them. A hilltop farmhouse… (continue reading)

“Roll the film, damn it!” one cried out.

“Come on for God’s sake, start the movie!” … (continue reading)

“I don’t usually take off with people I meet at truck stops,” Lana Marks said as she fished a pack of Marlboros from her purse and held them out with a perfectly manicured hand. “Smoke?”

Billy Wayson nodded beneath his black Stetson hat…. (continue reading)