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.
The old man frowns at the encyclopedia and swipes neatly with a pen. A thousand miles away, an obscure mountain top abruptly grows ten feet.
Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) makes emends.
I never had arthritis, but my husband did. It wasn’t mentioned in the will, but I feel like Frank would have wanted me to have it.
Daniel Galef has a Twitter account, @DanielGalef.
The leak in the ceiling remains, which he said he would take care of when he got back. It drips, and forms an invisible stalagmite of hope.
Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) is not responsible for the actions of fictional characters.
Becalmed; sails, limp and lifeless. A hundred and fifty men near starved. But, three weeks later, a miracle: all hundred men have survived.
Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) is exquisite in red sauce and best paired with a subtle rose.
When she couldn’t walk anymore, I sat on her lap and she stroked my ears. She never hit me. Her son thinks he owns me now. He smells bad.
Pat Tompkins writes from California.