Stories from
January, 2012

This one time: I did something crazy, borderline illegal, and the scar on my left cheek still talks smack about Ella Thompson.

Susan Franceschina is a fledgling human.

We meet infrequently for coffee now. In the AM. Without the kids, just in case. Because, according to her only, she doesn’t have a problem.

Sealey Andrews writes from her home in the Pacific Northwest.

He no longer cared about the drugs, the money, his cheap whores or his expensive cars. There were more important things now. Like feeding.

Sometimes Pete Sain writes. Here’s proof.

Black beetles roamed the grass by her feet, fat and shiny like beads. He’d have liked that. The adults standing around her droned on and on.

Simon Kewin is writing down everything he knows, one word at a time.