Donna and I never heard a sound coming from our new neighbors, who were separated from us by thick walls of black cherry and forsythia.

Still, whenever we made love, Donna insisted on closing the windows and drawing the curtains.

She would even lock the bedroom door, though we had no children, not even a cat that could nose its way in.

Later, when we had stopped making love altogether, the house held our silence like a broken bell.

Anyone listening as they let their dog pee against our mailbox would be unable to guess whether ours was a house of passion or devastation.

Even the packing up was quiet.

Charles Rafferty is an amateur archeologist who has yet to find any artifacts.

I said I’d never touch a drink again if I hit her or she got pregnant. An object in motion stays in motion. The moon full, no end in sight.

David Joez Villaverde (@academicjuggalo) is, and continues to be.

I opened the carton, expecting to find milk, but all I got were eggshells. I think my wife is trying to tell me something.

Chelsea Frederick is an asocial introvert and avid fan of audio dramas.

It’s worse because nothing happened. If we had yelled and fought, at least I wouldn’t still be walking toward your turned back. Hoping.

J. Yejin An is loud on paper but quiet in person.

To her the infant weighed more than the vanished father, a silhouette, larger with each pseudo inhalation—a porcelain doll, its eyes closed.

Rees Sweeten isn’t full of peanut butter. He has a salty, acquired taste.

He was relieved to survive the end of the world. She was relieved she hadn’t. They met in the afterlife and wondered which of them was real.

Siobhan Rosenthal lives in New Zealand in a campervan. She likes hot showers and doesn’t get them enough.

Years later, they met for a coffee. She complimented his hair and he asked about her son. Outside, invisible birds twittered in the trees.

Hasen Hull (@HzHull) enjoys long journeys. 

I pretend your train is Einstein’s train and your face a beam of light—the two of us shining side by side in perfect sync—as I watch you go.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I wouldn’t want my baby raised by a family that would have me as a member.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) was born from the head of God and is now looking for someplace more comfortable.

Call me Victor. I don’t deserve the name of Frankenstein. My creature, my son—let him take that from me. I have given him nothing else.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) knows every monster by name, even yours.