Feigning nonchalance, she knocked back the placebo before quickly realising that she would hate herself for a different reason if it worked.
You leave the perfect amount of water in your nightstand glass each morning to feed my orchid.
Drew Knapp. DC. @zuzwan.
He spoke in a harried whisper. About things he’d seen. About fears that tightened his stomach like a vise.
On the other end, a dial tone.
Trevor Pyle is a poet, journalist, and short-story writer.
Once again, he tells me that snow is paper-colored. Before I make the bed, I ask him one last time why he assumes the default is white.
Alisa Golden just woke up.
On the kitchen floor, leaning against the cold oven, she asked why he didn’t love her anymore. Her father said nothing.
Natalie Schriefer (@schriefern1) reads a lot and often forgets to talk.
He took a bus to the highway with a pack and a sleeping bag and nothing got better but some pretty important things didn’t get worse.
Margaret Killjoy (@magpiekilljoy) is a punk who writes things. Novel: A Country of Ghosts.
You returned to your happy life. A year passed. And another. Mine was still waiting for me.
Marcelle Heath is a freelance editor and fiction writer. She is currently serving as Series Editor for the Wigleaf Top 50.
Today I stepped from the ground and just kept going up. The clouds tasted more like pond than cotton candy. Geese are dicks. I’m going home.
Zebulon Huset still rollerblades & thinks you should too. He posts heaps of writing prompts at NotebookingDaily.com.
The old man in the alley was black with flies. Dead or nearly so, but the tourist had to hurry to catch the bus to the Great Wall.
Justin DeFerbrache teaches English in Northern China.
All the portents foretold his son would be his death. He knew how these things worked. He could do nothing but love the boy until the end.
Sean Vivier is the one who knocks.