PASSENGER by Alexander Fredman
A fissure opened in the earth. The car found it, slowing in the way that makes you realize how fast you were going.
OUR LAND SAYS MY SISTER LOOKED PEACEFUL by Myles Zavelo
Our Land turns particularly bleak at night; bicycles are stolen and dumpsters are torched. In the morning, users who sleep rough light spoons and burn up powders in front of little kids going to school.
IN THE MICROPLASTICS by Caleb Cloaca
The world’s all burning. You might as well buy yourself a pretty little (not so little) mansion. You can too: make love in the microplastics.
TRAIL OF SMALL CLOWNS by Caleb Bethea
I heard my liver slapping onto the tile floor. My pancreas half falling out of me, hanging all the way down into the sink with my old skin.
THE TEACHER by Melissa Benton Barker
The teacher hated the children. Ashley with her electric fence and Michelle with her little doll and Daniel with his frog.
THE CABIN by Meg Favreau
But today there was a cabin. A small, rough thing. Caked in leaves. Inside, they found old cans and an old bed and an old table. Inside, they found a calendar stuck on July 1992.
WHAT TO DO WHEN THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO DO by John King
I’ve just vomited into my mother’s coffin. The pallbearers rush me out of the parlor. The funeral home director eyes me fiercely. He isn’t wrong.
QUESTIONS FOR THE ALIEN WHO LISTENED TO THE VOYAGER GOLDEN RECORD by John Waddy Bullion
In your mind, is there nothing better than coming home after a punishing day in the asteroid mines, firing up a space joint, and taking a blissful sound bath in the pure vibes pouring forth from your carefully curated LP collection?
I JUST WANT PALS TO JOSH AROUND WITH by Kevin Richard White
Maybe we discuss how soft our wives’ hands are, how they look in the shower, how they may or may not love us.
THE ENTIRE LAME HISTORY OF THE CHICAGO SHINERS by Sam Berman
God shares my taller daughter’s name now. Which is Hope. I say it five times when she covers the inbound. Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope.