To her the infant weighed more than the vanished father, a silhouette, larger with each pseudo inhalation—a porcelain doll, its eyes closed.

Rees Sweeten isn’t full of peanut butter. He has a salty, acquired taste.

He was relieved to survive the end of the world. She was relieved she hadn’t. They met in the afterlife and wondered which of them was real.

Siobhan Rosenthal lives in New Zealand in a campervan. She likes hot showers and doesn’t get them enough.

Years later, they met for a coffee. She complimented his hair and he asked about her son. Outside, invisible birds twittered in the trees.

Hasen Hull (@HzHull) enjoys long journeys. 

I pretend your train is Einstein’s train and your face a beam of light—the two of us shining side by side in perfect sync—as I watch you go.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I wouldn’t want my baby raised by a family that would have me as a member.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) was born from the head of God and is now looking for someplace more comfortable.

Call me Victor. I don’t deserve the name of Frankenstein. My creature, my son—let him take that from me. I have given him nothing else.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) knows every monster by name, even yours.

Eve comes back to Adam again and again—not for love, not for children, but to try to suck that last bite of apple out of his selfish throat.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I wouldn’t wash her handprint off the window for some time. When she came back, I wanted to see how much she had changed.

Shane Olivieri bookmarks e-books but remembers the page he’s on in a paperback.

There we were, young and reckless, on your parent’s front lawn. Now, we’re 18, with a two-year-old and, somehow, I regret nothing.

Nicholas Powell is a writer located somewhere in America.

There I was, listening to breakup songs halfway before the end.

Kristy Lin designs jewelry.