If I adjust my lens, and if the bedroom curtains are pulled back far enough, it looks like she’s smiling just for me.

Justin Short lives in Missouri.

When the wild things came, everything was different. They were younger, and confused, and wanted to hold my hand.

Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) is getting better all the time.​

The damage healed, forests and oceans cover the world. There is one desert. At its center, an old Donkey Kong machine plays itself.

Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) is getting better all the time.​

Nobody had time for boys or sun. The ship was cold, leaking regret and self-indulgence, the grownups bailing as fast as they could.

Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) is getting better all the time.​

People harp on right and wrong, but I don’t know. Once you’ve seen a dying star blow ten planets to ash, your perspective changes.

Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) is getting better all the time.​

And so the world was actually a library, each individual storing a piece of information they thought of as their ‘life’ for a forgetful god.

Liam Aidan (@Liam_Aidan) is a self-certified urban spaceman & cake enthusiast. He’s also the author of a book of nanofiction called Vestigial Tales.

He looked at a hanging branch outside the window as she spoke and wondered how much he’d have to pull to separate the branch from that tree.

@DannyPoet is a writer of twitter and micropoetry and may or may not be a fictional person

I twist the silver band on my finger. It’s a comfort thing. Staring at the darkness, I twist until he leaves for work.

Emily Patino teaches writing, drinks coffee, and occasionally talks to her cat, Russell Crowe. He’s not great at advice.

I deleted my texts to her, canceled the bouquet I’d ordered, altered my online profile, double‑locked the door, and waited.

David Galef’s latest book is Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook (Columbia University Press).

He gave his creature the pseudonym he was using when I met him. A little joke, that name. Men of our sort are always hiding.

I called him my angel once, and he shuddered. Later I understood that he counted me among the temptations of which he longed to be rid.

You ask if I saw him transform—I who saw him cross the street to avoid the eyes he had kissed the night before. No. Not in the way you mean.

Hyde came to me only once. Thank God I feared scandal less than I feared his odious person. I suspect he should have killed me afterward.

But Henry Jekyll loved me, and that monster, the vessel of his sins, did not. I submit that it was not made to hold a sinless thing.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is a strange case.