Nanoism

He smirks at the baggie he’s confiscated: “So nice of you to share.” I watch him light up. So nice of him to mention his poison ivy allergy.

R. Gatwood is concise.

She hadn’t wanted one when she was young. Leading the girl furtively by the hand, no guardian in sight, the woman marveled at finding love.

Marcelle Heath is a fiction writer and assistant editor for Luna Park. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

The contest is over. The results are in (alphabetical order):

Winners

• “Can You Hear?” by David Erlewine
• “He Hardly Remembers the Crisis from Childhood” by Ann Marie Gamble
• “Thump Thump Thump” by Ruby Welsh
• “Break it Down” by Dale Wisely

Runners up

• “A Song of Loss” by Brad Chacos
• “Black” by Karl Kudrej
• “Ursari” by Jennifer Tatroe

Each winning story will be published Monday through Friday during one week of December and will receive the jaw-dropping monetary prize of $10. Huge thanks to everyone who entered the contest for giving us the chance to read your work. We want to keep hearing from you, so keep submitting.

The mussels steamed up and split their lips, revealing the soft, moist meat within. Jeremy sighed. He needed to find a girlfriend, and fast.

Brad Chacos has a story and an article appearing in future issues of Withersin magazine, but oddly enough, no Twitter account.

He thought that the story I wrote about love was “touching.” Too bad it wasn’t about him.

Matan White married her high school sweetheart. Too bad the only way she can communicate with him is by submitting to this mag.

The customer no-shows at a rest stop on I-65. A kilo cold in the trunk. It’s snowing. She shivers. “I’m done with this,” she says to no one.

Dale Wisely is a fan of economy of language. He edits Right Hand Pointing.

Three years after his release.  Beth pregnant, crying for a fix.  Half-dead.  And the gun in his waistband whispering: I got this.

Peter Schwartz reads so much he can’t help but write.

She lay as still as she was able, making a game of it, trying not to wake him. He would only put his arm around her in his sleep.

Michelle Ristuccia’s writing blog can be found at wakingdreamsblog.blogspot.com

Creaking boards, something quiet moving in the dark. I snap the lights on and there stands my dead sister. Thank God. I thought we had mice.

William Wood lives in an old farmhouse in the Blue Ridge Mountains with an understanding family. He often writes instead of sleeping.

He circled the pack, stayed downwind, out of sight. To no avail. They smelled his fear. “What’s your name, Mister?” the preschooler asked.

Ed Pahule (@Shadow_Ferret) is an aspiring novelist currently hidden away from his own children so he can get some writing done.