Nipples are a sin to look at unless you’re the husband, he said, or unless it’s by accident and only for a couple of seconds, 6 at the most.
James McManus’s work has appeared in The New Yorker, Harper’s, The Believer, and Paris Review.
The philosopher’s stone brought perfect order to chaos. The alchemist had but a moment of joy before the stone stilled his every atom.
Sean Vivier is a writer and a teacher.
I have been listening to your story—it’s tragic and poignant, I love it! The inquisition resumes tomorrow. Try to get some rest.
@ecambrose is the author of a dark historical fantasy series about a barber surgeon, coming next year from DAW books.
Spending every day combing the beach where he’d found the Spanish coin, he never noticed how empty their new house was.
Matthew Brennan is a novelist and short-fictionist.
The razor hadn’t done it. He had. And she’d put the wedding ring back on to make it clear.
Sylvia Hiven lives and writes in Atlanta, Georgia. She does not like fluff.
She’s old enough to read now and looks at me differently, over her tablet. When I say I’ll be home soon, she turns away.
Johnna Talbot lives in San Diego with her husband, to whom she spoke this story, then heard that it was one.
This story won the 2011 Nanofiction Contest.
No one wants this role. When you see me on the street, no matter how self-absorbed you are, you give thanks you’re not me. Move along.
Pat Tompkins writes from California.
This story won second place in the 2011 Nanofiction Contest.
God sighed. Lego was more fun in the old days. He still had the complete Garden of Eden set in a shoebox under his bed.
Sarah Stanton (@mallardbranx) is a birdwatcher, Sinophile, poet, translator and geek. She lives in China but dreams in English.
This story won third place in the 2011 Nanofiction Contest.
There was time. She grabbed her bag, phoned in the car. ‘You still in departures? Wait for me.’ She’d give him another chance – for Hawaii.
Jackie Bateman is a British author living in beautiful Vancouver. She has huge eye-bags despite the fresh air.
This story was an honorable mention in the 2011 Nanofiction Contest.
Afterwards, because he was sorry, he used to buy me flowers – yellows, purples, the colour of bruises. Nobody buys me flowers any more.
@ClareKirwan used to be a magician’s assistant but rarely jumps out of empty boxes any more.