Studying the drugstore employee’s eyes–dull, apathetic, without a trace of fear. She makes me so happy. It’s like the good old days.

Jennifer Shneiderman is a landlady and a writer living in Los Angeles.

The knock at the door signaled one of two options: either the police had caught up with him, or his doorbell was broken again.

Trevor Smith lives in Queens, making radio for NPR and writing books for no one. 

They liked playing fetch in the rain. Now that she’s gone, he doesn’t have to worry about the mud.

C.D. Marcum (@CD_Marcum) writes stories and stuff like that.

We packed the U-Haul to the brim with his new life. There wasn’t any room for that shelf we built. It probably would’ve fallen apart anyway.

Nick DelloRusso (@Nickdellorusso2) distributes pasta sauce across the five boroughs and thinks of stories while sitting in traffic.

When the king fell, we said he lay in enchanted sleep, to rise in the kingdom’s direst need. We needed comfort, even if we must invent it.

Sean Vivier makes web apps, teaches ballroom dance, and writes science fiction and fantasy.

The guilt weighed on her, though not as heavily as the feel of his mouth on hers. In these moments his girlfriend existed only in abstract.

Tunika Onnekikami (@tonnekikami) is just trying to figure it out.

She only writes when necessary.

Neila Mezynski only writes when necessary.

He was seventeen when he first fully understood what being dead meant. He was eight months old again when he forgot all that he had learned.

Miguel Paolo Reyes is a researcher from the Philippines.

I click “Ask me a different security question” because it still hurts too much to type your name.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is the emergent consciousness of a spectacularly inefficient library shelving system.

What kind of a Philosopher would cry softly on the subway over a sports team?

Rick Andrews is a writer and improviser from New York City. His computer is making his eyes hurt.