Afterwards, because he was sorry, he used to buy me flowers – yellows, purples, the colour of bruises. Nobody buys me flowers any more.
@ClareKirwan used to be a magician’s assistant but rarely jumps out of empty boxes any more.
But on the eighth day He created a race of iridescent spaceflyers with kaleidoscope eyes to tumble amongst the stars and forgot all about us.
Ben X. Caldwell writes, acts, and studies in Buffalo, NY. He is the writer of many “works” of fiction that nobody likes.
This one time: I did something crazy, borderline illegal, and the scar on my left cheek still talks smack about Ella Thompson.
Susan Franceschina is a fledgling human.
We meet infrequently for coffee now. In the AM. Without the kids, just in case. Because, according to her only, she doesn’t have a problem.
Sealey Andrews writes from her home in the Pacific Northwest.
He no longer cared about the drugs, the money, his cheap whores or his expensive cars. There were more important things now. Like feeding.
Sometimes Pete Sain writes. Here’s proof.
Black beetles roamed the grass by her feet, fat and shiny like beads. He’d have liked that. The adults standing around her droned on and on.
Simon Kewin is writing down everything he knows, one word at a time.
so we’re at the bar with our orange juice and I look at her and wonder if we will still be friends after they break up and I date Kevin
Jazmín Oña is 20.
“I know a romantic place for us to go.” I pointed my cigar at the wheel of my Bentley. “Wanna drive?” She shook her head.
“I’m thirteen.”
Evert Asberg lives and works in Europe.
He glanced from his red pants to the crumbled remains of a sleigh to a reindeer calmly chewing on grass. If only he remembered who he was.
Sylvia van Bruggen is known to write silly stories.
Snow melts in layers; she stares through the window knowing that in a few weeks the evidence will be laid bare for all to see.
Ashley Brown excels at bizarre beginnings and ends, but finds that stories, like desserts, are better with middles.