“We’re not in either, we’re between,” Dad says, eyes ahead.

His new navigator, I try to find us—swallowed by a crack between states.

Stephen Delaney: “Last revision. Promise!”

Curious, apologetic fingers stroked the coarse, post-op stitches then patted the belly that could never again wax and wane like the moon.

Meredith Hatcher is into submission, mostly literary.

An old woman says: “This is the story of a town that loses a little boy because they’re too busy—or too proud—to believe in a made-up wolf.”

A young shepherd with a wooden leg says: “This is the story of a stupid, stupid boy. A boy who doesn’t know words have power.”

An older man (who seems nice—ordinary—until the folklorist tries to leave) says: “This is the story of a wolf who finds the perfect prey.”

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is the emergent consciousness of a spectacularly inefficient library shelving system.

In time he comes to understand that the monster under the bed will never eat him. It will only eat away at his faith in his parents’ love.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is often found under furniture, but can be minimized with regular dusting.

He gave up :-| trying :-| to keep a mood :-| calendar :-| because every
face :-| he drew :-| was exactly :-| the same.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is not always concise.

This memory is about that humiliating moment on prom night, 1964. For the location of your keys, see this morning (page does not exist).

R. Gatwood is not a free encyclopedia that anyone can edit.

He doesn’t like the commission’s definition of “torture” and how it makes him think about his dad in a different way.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is a verbal construct.

This December marks Nanoism’s first author spotlight since its inception over six years ago. Every week this month, we’re featuring a story by the same author: one of our very favorites, R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead). Enjoy!

She’d asked him for an answer, but there was only the important sound of meat being separated from bone, the tiny roar of the lantern.

Heather Murphy lives in the mountains of Oregon, where it is too beautiful for mere adjectives.

We talked philosophy all through the night, until the sun didn’t come up. When she finally left, I was no longer sure who or if we were.

Daniel Galef writes things sometimes.