When I said I wanted to stretch her out like a kite, she proclaimed my right cheek the lightning capital of the world.
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009). He lives at iheartfailure.net.
“It’s 2010! Where’s my flying car! Meal in a pill! Who’s suppressing the teleporter?” The Teamsters’ President shifted uneasily in his seat.
Mike Donoghue likes mice, most movie, the muppets, malbec and moist macaroons.
“Whatcha think?” Moonlight soaked the splatter cast. A cicada tittered sagely, purveying some fleck of vapid insight. I sighed, “Dead poet.”
Joseph A. W. Quintela writes. Poems. Prose. On Post-its. Walls. Envelopes. Cocktail napkins. Twitter. Anything, really. But, whatever.
Looking at the carnage around his foxhole, Sergeant Jones decided not to pray. All around lay the evidence that no one listened.
Steven Saus injects people with radioactive material as “real” job, but for the forces of good.
Because he loved her, he packed his bags. He wrote her a good check and a note in dry erase. He left clues but knew she wouldn’t come.
Teresa Houle (@teresahoule) wants you to read her.
We’re eating dinner late, 8:30pm. My two year old stands up, walks to the glass door, nose pressed up, and says, “She’s out there again.”
Glen Binger (@glenbinger) is part of The Broad Set Writing Collective. He edits 50 to 1 and talks in a higher tone when naked.
Her prayer for love seeped through the firmament and tickled his ears. God then hunched over a copy of Cosmo and read her horoscope.
Andrew Bowen edits Divine Dirt Quarterly. He spends his time poking fun at God and sharing beers and laughs afterward.
Horse smelled funny when he cooked it. Shot it up anyway. Didn’t ever come down.
William Walsh is the author of Questionstruck and Without Wax.
His calloused hand squeezed her tiny thumb. Inadequate insurance, he discovered. He couldn’t afford healthcare. He could pay for a funeral.
Bruce Harris is a doctor and a salesman, but not necessarily in that order.