After you found out your brother died, the first thing I said to you was, “I thought I told you not to call me.”
Jennifer Brush loves ketchup. She also loves catsup.
Facing me are hollow eyes and a down turned mouth. “Cheers.” Glass clinks and we drink before hiding our bottles beneath the bathroom sink.
If Delia Strange was in a relationship with her writing, the status would be “It’s complicated.”
A scream is not a rooster, not in this neighborhood. It won’t bring me out of bed. I have work in three hours. Goodnight.
Spencer Nitkey is an eclectic teenager with very little certainty about where life will take him. All he knows is that he is excited.
Gathering the envelopes (second, third, final notice) from the rug thick with dust, she pauses on last year’s sun-bleached catalog.
Jennifer Ray Morell (@heyjenray) is a writer and student. She lives in Queens, New York.
Seven guns fire three times and Jane collects a flag.
Courtney Stafford is a student at the University of Colorado.
They raised two girls sleeping in separate rooms. On occasion, she’d tap on his door, her sheepish smile buying her entry inside.
Ian Sands is currently not writing a novel.
She combed the mommy website until dawn but found no name implying inconvenience or denoting disappointment.
Meredith Hatcher writes to keep from going insane in rural Texas.
I finally found someone like Me. Then I remembered I had forbidden all other gods.
R. Gatwood is mortal.
When the rivers dried up and the flowers died, I knew that the end was near, so I sat on the edge of a precipice and watched them warp away.
JT Gill arranges words in clever orders, he thinks.