Stories from
December, 2011

so we’re at the bar with our orange juice and I look at her and wonder if we will still be friends after they break up and I date Kevin

Jazmín Oña is 20.

“I know a romantic place for us to go.” I pointed my cigar at the wheel of my Bentley. “Wanna drive?” She shook her head.

“I’m thirteen.”

Evert Asberg lives and works in Europe.

He glanced from his red pants to the crumbled remains of a sleigh to a reindeer calmly chewing on grass. If only he remembered who he was.

Sylvia van Bruggen is known to write silly stories.

Snow melts in layers; she stares through the window knowing that in a few weeks the evidence will be laid bare for all to see.

Ashley Brown excels at bizarre beginnings and ends, but finds that stories, like desserts, are better with middles.

The doctor said he had the heart of a much younger man. He stood outside the home of the donor’s family, trying to think of the right words.

Simon Kewin employs an infinite number of monkeys to write stories for him. It’s easier that way.

She thought about packing a single bag and disappearing completely before he woke. Deciding a haircut would do instead, she lay back down.

Erica Lee Rosen is figuring it out, everybody just calm down.

I drink memory-rich wine for her. When the last drop’s gone, she’ll leave. Recollections will blur while the grape-odor lingers.

Nathaniel Katz blogs about genre at The Hat Rack. When not blogging, he pretends he can write fiction.

Up… down… up… down… then drag on the tights and plod out the window. Even with married women, sex was no fun for The Flash.

JP Allen grew up in Kentucky, went to school in Vermont, and is writing from Madrid.

Zeus didn’t have the heart to tell Pandora: Hope had been meant as a torment as well.

Sean Vivier wishes we could title these.

He had only one rule: that she never refuse him. Other than that, she felt free.

Billy Rand is an amalgamation of Billy the Kid and Ayn Rand.