Bereft in the chocolate aisle, mistaking under-the-breath singing for a kindred whimper, he turns. She has wild hair but hissing headphones.
Jacob Edwards is a writer poet person from Brisbane Australia. He watches the world, lives mostly in his head and tweets @ToastyVogon.
After the naloxone, he promised to change. But this time he told no one.
Johnna Talbot prefers to be all story and no backstory, but she does admit to writing in San Diego.
She washed and pressed his uniform to perfection. He died never knowing his laundress was a Jew who spat in the starch for his brown shirts.
Diane Englert, writer and theatre artist, is redefining herself and does not apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.
He asked me to speak up in class, as if my stutter vanished with volume.
Paul Latham lives in West TN.
You wake up in the hospital, having failed even at this.
R. Gatwood is concise.
“Teddy says he doesn’t like it when you fight.”
Jon Bradmore loves tomatoes and black-capped chickadees.
In love again. So is she.
Arthur Klepchukov was born between Black Seas, Virginian Beaches, and San Franciscan waves. Read his words at ArsenalOfWords.com.
I told him once, during study hall, told him exactly how I felt.
“Wait,” he had said, finally, “is that from a song?”
Michael Miersen (@FDSY) is an author and playwright.
What if I, after three beers and two whiskeys, could view myself in a mirror and say with a straight face: “Your dreams came true!”
Jason Peck lives in Pittsburgh.
Couldn’t find Dad, so I asked Mom. “Which is better: Love or money?”
She sipped gin, unopened tonic beside her. “Depends on who’s paying.”
Austin Eichelberger just keeps writing.