Stories

He was captured in the ocean of the well-endowed. Sired sixteen, killed three humans—they still won’t let him go. The audience loves him.

Alisa Golden is also reading Moby Dick.

I didn’t mean to call the black candles in the paper bag tacky. You brought them to my party ten years ago. I think of it every so often.

Patti Flynn lives in New Haven, CT with her 2 imaginary Siamese cats. Many people—ok 2—have been charmed by her amazing doodles.

He gave the order to destroy me, but the monster fed on love I no longer had.

Maddie Bernard overstays her welcome.

I could hear her whispering through the anaesthetic haze. She said she loved every part of me. I wondered if she knew how much was missing.

Vicky Hinault (@vickyhinault) is a true word obsessive and is happiest when scribbling in her notebooks, usually about the underdog.

Finally, silence predominated, except for the sound of fingers on glass and the vibration of love letters euthanized by satellites.

Sometimes Sarah Vernetti has a hard time coming up with clever, pithy bios.

Said the man overseas: “Have I met your needs today, sir?“

Said the man at home: “Yes, but do you have to go? No one here asks me that.”

Christian Hayden is a necessary evil, I suppose.

It was when his holding became more like choking and leaving became more like dancing that I realized all my movements were wrong.

Rachel Tanner is a grad student who is a future English and writing professor. You can follow her hilarious Twitter at @rickit.

And then we laughed too loudly and for far too long, dreading the silence that was to come after.

Kristy Lin (@kristyxlin) wonders if Nanoism received her previous submission but knows that she has to wait 3 months to ask formally.

The seagulls were flying in a perfect circle, matching that of the mosquitos and the deer. Nearby, the abandoned radar was humming again.

John Pugh XI is a writer/musician living in post-war Manhattan.

The goodbye note, all I had left of her, was spotted with little drops, smudging the paper. They looked like tears, but smelled like scotch.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.