I miss reading your gothic paranormal dinosaur erotica poetry.
I miss you playing B-side heavy metal on low volume whilst veganising carnivorous recipes.
I miss picking up a full jar of pickles and standing stupidly with only the lid in my hand.
I missed the meaning of your goodbye note.
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog. See more at alicelambooks.com.
Before dying, she softly whispered, “I’ve never really loved you, and now I can’t make it up to you.”
He already knew, and consoled, “Don’t worry about that now. I’ve loved you enough for both of us.”
That’s when he saw in her eyes the love he’d always waited for.
Connell is always upbeat about putting something in his bio section and personally writes them all by himself as others couldn’t be bothered doing it for him.
Some wild-eyed vagrant bursts into a studio and tells a young artist about the evil he’s done and his years on the run. He hands the artist a pistol.
The artist listens attentively before recognising the vagrant’s eyes as his.
Terror… Then resignation follows as he slowly squeezes the trigger.
One of Connell’s many dilemmas is whether to write a bit or not before going to bed. When he writes, he’s sleepy the next day, and when he doesn’t, the ideas slip away.
He meticulously unwraps it to find an android of his deceased father.
It self-activates and tells him his father uploaded all his memories and emotions before he died. It loads and says, “Son! I’m back!”
He shoves the imposter away.
The android weeps for a moment, then deletes its memory.
Connell writes a bit and then goes to bed.
When I was younger, my dad taught me how to play chess. If I made a bad move, my dad would let me take it back. He also taught me that a man never cheats.
But I cheated. And that broke her heart.
Nobody’s letting me take that move back.
D.B. Robertson is a Psychology major from Indiana who has rediscovered a love for creative fiction after taking courses in creative writing. When not busy with writing or theatre, D.B. works as a writing tutor at university.
I don’t know
what I said.
I only know that
it was wrong.
I’m not sure why,
but the pillow in my arms
says that it is so.
I’m well acquainted with my couch these days
–but there I’ll stay.
I love life way too much
to sneak back in.
E.O. Hargreaves recently misplaced a really comfy feather pillow and wishes he knew where the heck it went.
Beware of Ifs. Onlys follow them. They will lead you down dark alleys where Regrets will ambush you. You are sure to be kneecapped by Paralysis and blinded by Sorrow. And there, you’ll remain for the rest of your life. You’ll never find your way home where Hope keeps vigil.
Kamalinii is a prisoner of Ifs.
What seemed like an infinite amount of time passed in about three seconds. She experienced the glorious sensation of what seemed to be flying. All of her worries vanished, except that for a split second, just before she hit the tarmac, she found herself asking, “Wait, why did I jump?”
Hannah Stevens has always had a passion for reading and writing. She is fifteen years old and has a weakness for words.
Rounds chambered. Safeties off.
We face the wall.
No one’s innocent. Still, one looks twelve, another an old padre… Their stares tear through the blindfolds.
Our weapons rise. I glance at a fellow corporal. He looks away.
Wars are messy, but I didn’t expect to shoot—
Joey thinks he’ll probably be the one to be lined up against the wall when the time comes… Meanwhile, you can visit him at joeytoey.com.
Holding the colorful bracelet, Ellie remembers: its green beads had matched his eyes.
In the car, they’d laughed, hearts beating for tomorrow. Her wrist wrapped in sky.
“The next jewelry’ll be for your finger.”
Now, scraping red—paint? blood?—from the bracelet, Ellie regrets ever wanting more than him, then.
Kerry Graham lives, teaches, writes, runs, and photographs in Baltimore, MD. Connect with her on Instagram