Fiction

Staring up at a velvet black sky, we watch millions of stars spark and swirl. On a quilt, soft and worn with years of washing and dreaming, we speak of the fate of humanity…

I have a theory that the nicest rooms, those with the best views, go to the sickest patients. If my theory is correct, I’m fucked. My room is on the second floor…

Chick Ernest had been chatting with other parents when his son nearly died. The basketball season ended around Thanksgiving and the Sharks went to Kat’s Kradle…

Neal Bickley had thought that a public ass-chewing couldn’t be that bad. Watching the chairman skewer board meeting presenters…

Our mother had a tattoo. We didn’t see it until we washed her before the undertaker came. It was two tattoos, in truth. Two brown dots, one above her right breast, one below.

The boy pulls his chair up to the window. He does this every Wednesday night to watch the woman in the pink towel in the apartment across the tiny alley.

My last partner threw me away after my legs wouldn’t open for him. He didn’t explicitly say that of course; he said something about a lack of connection.

Read the short story, The Prisoner: Free at Last, by Phil McNichol: “Quite often I fell to my knees and beat my fists against that block.”

Short story by Jeremy Luke Hill: “He was backing away, his hands held out in front of him to ward off whatever it was that was happening before his eyes…”