The seagulls were flying in a perfect circle, matching that of the mosquitos and the deer. Nearby, the abandoned radar was humming again.
John Pugh XI is a writer/musician living in post-war Manhattan.
The goodbye note, all I had left of her, was spotted with little drops, smudging the paper. They looked like tears, but smelled like scotch.
Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.
We meet at a hacker space in Berlin. I score some dust online. She’s gone in the morning. I tell myself I’m done. Exhale. This is a lie.
Ben Parker Karris grew up on airplanes. He lives and works in Los Angeles.
All that remains of our sultry summer is a puckered-up clementine on the mantel, too integral to the room’s aesthetic to be composted.
Matt Crowley believes in the forbidden fruit.
A woman, at the refrigerator,
holds an unmarked jar.
She unscrews the lid, breathes in,
decides how much she trusts it.
It’s true Seth Clabough is a bballing asthmatic beach bum with chickens and a fauxhawk, but the rest are lies. Damn lies.
One candy heart out of a billion says: I know it can never be the same, and that’s okay. I smile and think of you, then wish I hadn’t.
Daniel Galef reads when he isn’t writing.
She dreamt of her future child, a marine biologist, on Valentine’s Day. Three days later, a future disappointment left her fallopian tube.
Monica Wang is a spinster from Vancouver, Canada. She collects sea glass and teacups in her spare time.
He felt a glimmer of belated hope when she hurled the bouquet. But it fell at the feet of the bridesmaids, who still clutched their rifles.
Noel Sloboda applies himself to obscure arts, mostly in Pennsylvania.
Flies found the potato salad. The iced tea was watery and warm. The batteries wore out before the seventh inning. I don’t miss you anymore.
Greg Bowers lives and teaches in Columbia, Missouri.