by Nox Nackman

Did my creations make you mad?

by Francesca Spiegel

That’s all these windows will ever know, flat as a tradwife Instagram account that only knows spatulas, cookie dough and frilly apron; flat as the shoe of a waitress.

by Bonnie Day

If I felt like going at full speed, I would pedal as fast as I could until my breath came in fits and a stitch crackled in my side. Or I could pedal so slowly that a little old lady could pass me by. Or I could stop, once, twice, even three times. Sip water and stare into the field. Alone was good. It was what I wanted. And so, we both biked alone.

by Linda Griffin

I lived with strangers. Some of them were related to me. Some were not. I don’t know if any of them loved me. They never said.

by Victoria Krammen Butler

She could still sense whispers of the weeks, months and years she’d experienced in stories before, but she never longed for them. That was another rule: she should remain in the present. The fragments were enough to know she existed, and that in itself was all she needed. She liked it that way. Though, again, she wasn’t sure if there even were other ways. 

by Djana Kolaj

Through diesel dentures
are steel syllables

by HB Collins

Let tranquil weeping fall on the ears of your ghosts
and the palms of your demons, who wait just as eagerly
as you to your phone, where you pray to a god
you don’t believe in, for just one text.

by Stetson Ray

It’s like being married to a doctor I suppose. People need him. He has an important job to do. I’m just some woman. Our son is just some baby.