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.

Lost in the narrative arc is the last time I said her name not like an errant hammerhead to thumb, the nail crooked as a blister.

J. Bradley lives at iheartfailure.net.

“Follow the rainbow to the pot of gold,” a woman said to herself as she waited for a car under the neon lights.

John Siebelink is a college student. He has been an aspiring writer for 20 years.

Q: Looking back, how did it feel to be a famous photographer?

A: Like you, kid. I saw pain and suffering, focused my lens on it.

Stephen Delaney isn’t a big fan of real life, but he’s glad it gives material for fiction. He tweets as @marginalwords.

She did not weep because her purity had been stolen, but because it was now her dear sister who would be sacrificed to the gods.

Alex Barry can stop writing whenever he wants.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but I was a new software engineer, and the bug needed to be fixed right away.

Pratibha Kelapure is a person.

Alaska, he said, counting out the money. His children were tired, but Dad was so happy they believed one more time.

Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) gives his report at dex3703.wordpress.com. He is working on a novel.

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.”