His wide eyes implored her, but she was convinced. “What happens next matters most,” she sang, checking the gag and pushing him out to sea.

Born in a singular quantity, M. Drehd has been divided ever since.

But lo, the Lord then formed a greater curse: the financial ruin of the firstborn.

Sean Vivier wrote this.

In a family that never listened, he learned to shout. And in the world, they followed.

Jessie Wang is a writer with big hopes and low expectations.

The Devil moves in next door. He asks to borrow a cup of sugar. What’s the catch? He looks sad. I’m the one asking, he says.

Every morning the Devil sweeps his sidewalk. He holds excellent backyard barbecues, returns balls and frisbees. Everyone still avoids him.

The Devil likes my evening company, offers me exquisite brandy on his porch. He smiles at the stars. You don’t know what you have, he says.

Months pass. The Devil as neighbor becomes normal. One summer dusk I ask if we are friends, and he looks long into the distance.

Spring comes and we enjoy its evening. I ask the Devil if the past was better. The stars emerge. I wish I could forget like you do, he says.

One summer morning, the Devil’s house is empty, sidewalk unswept. I think of sugar and try to smile at the morning star.

Derek Dexheimer feels much better. He provides a daily story @dex3703 and blogs about the strange wonder of being alive.

My coat wraps about me like the wings I once loved. It sheds the numbing rain, but not the stares or whispers, knives twisting in my ribs.

Nathan Slemp is either a frantic college student or hopelessly buried in his own worlds, depending on the day. He lives in Michigan.

Lovesick on the highway, tuned to a radio show on coincidences, when you drive past unaware, picking your nose, and leave my heart pounding.

Dawn Sperber lives and writes in New Mexico, found @WonderMeant.

Children play in the park. A hand reaches for another rung of the monkey bars, legs dangling precariously. Let him fall, he’ll learn.

Mark Rosenblum is a New York native who now lives in Southern California where he misses the taste of real pizza and good deli food.

He couldn’t feel my face when I was a baby. His hands were too rough, or I was too soft. Like cinderblocks on silk, mother said.

Dan Reiter believes in partial telepathy.

She spreads mint jelly across a slab of multi-grain toast and wishes for pop-up children who never say no or I can’t or don’t kill me.

Kyle Hemmings lives and dies in New Jersey.

There’s a note on my door. Hurrying inside, I catch the last of my dreams climbing out a window, wearing my now useless wedding gown.

Zac Newnham (@znewnham) is a creative writing student in Melbourne, taking very small steps on a very long road.