Stories from
August, 2016

I waited for you to break my heart, but you never would. So we grew together, mold between bread slices of inhale/exhale; ingest/excrete.

Evan Anderson lives and writes in a bowl of a city surrounded by swamps and brimming with stories and music.

The fact that you’ve had the hotline number memorized for the past two weeks probably means you’re not being melodramatic.

R. Gatwood is concise.

That night was an envelope I didn’t open. You wriggled through the back door, got married and died before I had the chance to say hello.

@JasonAbbate lives somewhere on the east coast. He is fascinated by the presence and absence of narratives and realities.

The paramedics sent her last text: itsyours.

Adam Dwyer lives in Toronto with a girl and two cats, and shares a birthday with Mickey Spillane.

There was a disagreement. She blamed it on the alcohol, he blamed the fact that she called. Now they had to agree on a name.

Adam Christopher (@bitesizedAC) is a writer who’s never have the good fortune of being mistaken for successful or clever.