The man wanted a dog. The woman wanted a baby.
The man did not want a baby, but really wanted a dog.
They settled for each other.
Danny Croot’s potential is only handicapped by his laziness.
The vodka tasted watery. She worried.
Bruce Harris enjoys relaxing with a Marxman.
The first time I overdosed, I saw God. Every time since, I have seen only blackness. I must find him.
Robert Holt is a writer of dark fiction.
Feasting in a well at the end of time, it wonders why this world discarded wishes into crumbling holes and abandoned them.
Matthew Bowers has learned that the quality of his writing is inversely correlated to his professional ambition.
Jesus gets thirsty too, but keep your pants zipped. That’s what Bill would say, but he never lied about Adam being his, either.
Amy McNamara does various things with words in Seattle.
Out in the fields, the old bosses dug bare-handed. Their young watchers didn’t understand their crimes and gave them water and chocolate.
Derek Dexheimer (@dex3703) gives his report at dex3703.wordpress.com. He is working on a novel.
They were woken by a scream outside. He whispered, ‘Don’t worry, it’s city life.’
In the morning, a policeman asked them, ‘Nothing at all?’
JR Deschampsneufs: always learning the art.
You were the first to want space. Muttering I just need some air, you fled, and that was The Big Bang.
Now we’re all scattered everywhere.
Dawn Corrigan has just stepped outside for a moment.
You asked me to edit your memoir. It was much more satisfying after I replaced her name with mine.
Cheryl Chancellor lives on the other side of the looking-glass.
Subject line: I DON’T LIKE YOUR TONE.
Message: blank.
Eric Hawthorn has found that writing his own bio is the only time he can get away with referring to himself in the third person.