Baby teeth rattle like dried corn in a plastic box. She shuts the childproof drawer, accepts her parents as caricatures.

Dan Reiter wishes the world were rounder.

He remembers it, longs for it, that old life of cold wells and bitter flies, each time she kisses him with her warm dry lips.

@mari_ness does not recommend kissing frogs as a dating technique.

And the LORD said to Vishnu, “The War of the Gods is turning into a losing battle. The humans have started fighting for themselves.”

Etienne Reynaud says things sometimes.

Once, I told somebody about you. I was informed that what happened was RAPE but I wasn’t sure so I decided not to talk about it anymore.

Emily Margaret Wells writes true stories (journalism) and obliquely true stories (fiction).

They argued for hours on their last night together. Who would be the murder, and who would be the suicide?

Brendan Klinkenberg, on occasion, writes.

It turned into a prince, like it said, but its lungs were still on the metal tray, and it still stank of formaldehyde. I wiped my mouth.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.

It was pretending to be his wife again; two feet on the stairs, the other six on the walls. “Come out, Ben. Please!” It did her voice too.

Dean Clayton Edwards writes in a caravan in the South of France.

The suicide lay on the bed beside his favorite novel opened to a highlighted passage he felt would clearly explain his reasons.

Matt Crowley sleeps soundly only when his watchtower of books stands sentinel at his bedside.

Just sayin’, I was hungry and looked all over for those plums you bought. Didn’t see any, so I ate your birthday cake instead. My bad.

Mike Serpa apologizes to William Carlos Williams.

Eyes wild with delight, the delight that only freedom brings, she hollered, “I have danced with the devil, and he can’t dance worth a shit.”

Hayley Whitworth (@hayleywhitworth) loves these tiny pieces of fiction.