Stories

We argue over what to call it, that place where the children die.

R. Gatwood is precise.

Since you died, two thoughts keep hitting me one after the other: “Wish you were here” and then “You didn’t want to be here.”

R. Gatwood is concise.

I forgot your birthday this year. Maybe that’s progress.

R. Gatwood’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming, depending on your temporal location, in Apex Magazine.

He lived long enough to see his favorite beach vanish and his favorite food go extinct.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is the emergent consciousness of a spectacularly inefficient library shelving system.

He lies bleeding in her lap, and he says, Tell me a story, and she laughs through tears and says, I love you, and he says, No, a true story.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) tells many stories, mostly false ones.

We moved into a two-bedroom place: one bedroom for the both of us, the other for Nate’s train set. I was just married, and I compromised.

Andre Brito lives in San Francisco, CA.

The beat increased as he stood by the subwoofer feeling the song in his chest as she danced across the room and slowly kissed someone else.

Frederick Charles Melancon doesn’t dance.

It longed to fit in: not get called names like freak or puppet, attend school with friends and be considered human. Now, it didn’t matter.

Corey Miller (@IronBrewer) brews beer in Cleveland. For more work check out www.CoreyMillerWrites.com

I make all the mistakes in the world but never the same one twice. Here’s the story: I made a friend once.

A. J. Crowan draws things, sometimes writes things and lives in Utah.

Golden lights in the sky, acoustic guitar, brick patio at a stranger’s house. When I met you, I understood why people write poetry.

Bryn Yoder works odd jobs while waiting for a long-lost Nigerian relative to pass and bestow his fortune upon her. Fingers crossed.