Stories by
R. Gatwood

He seemed so happy. And he had been unhappy for so long. And I was so tired of taking care of him.

R. Gatwood is concise.

“Eurydice?” he says for the third time.

Behind him, she waits.

R. Gatwood never looks back.

She decides to put the tooth under her pillow before she leaves. Even with one less kid around, her mom will need the money.

R. Gatwood is concise.

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.

An old woman says: “This is the story of a town that loses a little boy because they’re too busy—or too proud—to believe in a made-up wolf.”

A young shepherd with a wooden leg says: “This is the story of a stupid, stupid boy. A boy who doesn’t know words have power.”

An older man (who seems nice—ordinary—until the folklorist tries to leave) says: “This is the story of a wolf who finds the perfect prey.”

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

In time he comes to understand that the monster under the bed will never eat him. It will only eat away at his faith in his parents’ love.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is often found under furniture, but can be minimized with regular dusting.

He gave up :-| trying :-| to keep a mood :-| calendar :-| because every
face :-| he drew :-| was exactly :-| the same.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is not always concise.

This memory is about that humiliating moment on prom night, 1964. For the location of your keys, see this morning (page does not exist).

R. Gatwood is not a free encyclopedia that anyone can edit.

He doesn’t like the commission’s definition of “torture” and how it makes him think about his dad in a different way.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is a verbal construct.

Forget the stories we made up about the scars. We never had wings. We were born joined at the back, destined only to weigh each other down.

R. Gatwood is concise.