Stories by
Alisa Golden

You give me one of your wings so we can fly together. But I’m bad at this. We fly in circles until we have to swim home, separately, alone.

Alisa Golden is paddling around here somewhere.

Once again, he tells me that snow is paper-colored. Before I make the bed, I ask him one last time why he assumes the default is white.

Alisa Golden just woke up.

He was captured in the ocean of the well-endowed. Sired sixteen, killed three humans—they still won’t let him go. The audience loves him.

Alisa Golden is also reading Moby Dick.