Craig was used to being disappointed, as he had told the paramedic only moments ago. The light at the end of the tunnel was lit by flames.
Sam Kearns will dance, sing and handstand for money, though he isn’t any good at all three.
As the kitchen curtains ignite, the man in the living room types “smelling smoke” and skims a list. Seizure. Stroke. Tumor. Sinus infection.
R. Gatwood is concise.
The scent of carpet was so reminiscent of Dr. Li’s waiting room that, in remembering my frequent visits, I almost forgot I was dead.
Lau Lioi lives in New Jersey. She is Argentine, not Asian. She studies architecture and reads like it’s her job. If only it were.
With closed eyes, she sat on. All would change to dull reality if they opened, so she put his hookah into her mouth and began smoking again.
Chad Greene teaches children’s literature.
They met on a cruise, married days later. He hardly knew her but that was the appeal. She got ill soon after the honeymoon. Prostate cancer.
@EricBoydtweets writes a lot for different things.
I guess I agreed to have sex with her because that is what adults do, they have sex. And at twenty-five I wanted to feel like an adult.
Lacy Lalonde drinks tea and writes fiction.
Sometimes, we forget children are fragile.
Olivia Rich (@OliviaRich4) tries this writing technique from her creative writing elective.
It’s strange. Ever since the whole of humanity fled to the suburbs, the giant monsters have yet to attack us.
Sean Vivier calls this one “Suburban Flight.”
I flew west the day the papers went final. Sky at my shoulders, free country below. A vandalized plane sign: “life vAst under your seat.”
Matthew Fogarty is compiling a playlist for the drive home.