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.

She flipped through her kid sister’s diary, all stories of kittens and boys. Nothing about an older sister. She wondered who she was.

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

I said, “We should talk about something.”
She beat a rhythm on the dash, turned up the radio.
“Wait,” she said. “This is my favorite part.”

Trevor Pyle is a journalist and writer in Washington State.

The agent knew the only way to survive this. He made his way to the nearest superheroes, and he made sure they knew his name.

Sean Vivier teaches for a living.

I had sinned twice more than Joan, but they let me tag along. At the end of the day, I was a Christian.

Danielle Abramsohn writes stories shorter than she is.

On my way to the home, I pick a hemlock flower to add to the bouquet. He still laughs at our old running jokes, when I explain them.

R. Gatwood is concise.

The girl took a selfie with the pop star through a telepresence robot and went back to her hospital bed with a print, forgetting her pain.

S. Kay is a compassionate @blueberrio.

My father once jumped over fences like an Olympic hurdler to reach his son with the broken arm, breathless. The fences are too high now.

Brett Milam writes flash fiction, poetry and editorials, mostly while hooked up to a coffee IV. He’s obsessed with his dog, Dallas.

I sailed down the creek in a tiny rowboat using torn bible pages as my map. I never did find that garden.

Michael O’Neill is a fiction and poetry writer residing in Chicago.

The birds stopped in the sky & I saw the men who move between moments. They sang & prepared the lake where my kid sister was about to drown.

@saladinahmed is the author of the Hugo & Nebula-nominated fantasy novel Throne of the Crescent Moon. He lives near Detroit.