Stories by
William Wood

Creaking boards, something quiet moving in the dark. I snap the lights on and there stands my dead sister. Thank God. I thought we had mice.

William Wood lives in an old farmhouse in the Blue Ridge Mountains with an understanding family. He often writes instead of sleeping.

He glared. Sex is not a reward. She shrugged and placed a dish in the drying rack. He stewed on the couch a while, then took out the trash.

William Wood lives in an old farmhouse in the Blue Ridge Mountains with an understanding family. He often writes instead of sleeping.