Arthur

The 5 was pulling away. Normally I wouldn’t run to catch a bus. It’s idiotic. With her husband 10 yards behind me I was running already. I guess maybe I am an idiot. He was starting to give up as I ran faster. Maybe he thought she wasn’t worth the chase. He was right. The driver saw me and stopped. I got on and didn’t look back. I told myself this was the last time I’d see her. That’s what I said last time too.

fred

It started with the Tooth Fairy when I was 4. That was the first myth. And of course there was Santa Claus. Then there was God and Jesus, only now it wasn’t supposed to be a myth anymore. I converted to Islam when I was 20. It became Mohammed and jihad. My old friends were my new enemies. I was told what to believe, the same as always. I strapped on my vest, walked into a crowd at the market and detonated it.

Eric Flaman

I lay awake waiting for the Fear. At last his face appears sheathed by darkness. I can’t scream for when he arrives even the old timekeeper standing at the end of the hall is choked. I bound out of my bed wielding a fiery sword taking the beast by surprise. Claws lashing he slashes my chest. Before I faint I got that beast in the eye. I awake in a white padded room the beast may have won, but I still have his eye.

Jim

Grandma had knit countless wool socks for the boys “over there.” She sewed miles of stitches into quilts for missionary projects. But she was always tucking away coins to drop into the red kettle for her own neighbors when the cheery bell rang each Christmas.

My small wad of bills silently falling to the bottom of the kettle is joined by the tear falling on my cheek. “Thank you for showing me the way. I love you!”

Shasta

They had taken so many from her she had lost count. Lifeless love producing loveless lives. She had forgotten when it had begun; perhaps it was always this way. Another would stir within her soon, but all she could do now was wait: the years of servitude bleeding together at this orphan factory, this zoo.

J.

On a morning so cold that even the air has frozen in place, I and a portly stranger, for a moment, share a square of sidewalk. In his hands is a to-go cup from which he sips and exhales deeply. Seeming more bizarrely intimate than that goodbye kiss, I hesitate to inhale his breath that lingers in the frigid air. The chilled breath, a taste like chocolate milk, assuages the bitter tang of breakup over morning coffee.

Sharon

Tom and Liz arrived at the Center of the US in Lebanon, Kansas believing their luck would change. After two flats, lost keys, and a wrong turn, surely some sort of power at the flag-flying monument on a hill was their beacon of hope. They entered the little chapel and wrote their names on the register. “This would be an ideal place to get married,” Tom said. Liz accepted, seeing the chapel only held two more people.

Elizabeth

Josie steps cautiously, listing slightly to the side. The tall, rickety diving board is wet, but she won’t allow herself to slip. She last attempted the high-dive at 19 and became scared; her lifeguard friend allowed her sheepish return back down the ladder. Today, her 35th birthday, she will reach the end of the board and gracefully leap into the cool water far below. At least, this how she pictures it in her head.

Alisa

I am lost but anyone can find me. They cannot touch me though. Nobody can get in when I am like this. I'm in deep...very, very deep. Nothing else exists but this. I am sucked in so completely, and without even thinking I have surrendered my emotions. But I feel so alive, and as connected as a person can possibly be! This will always be a part of my life. An everlasting affair...with my music.

Aaron

Knight to King 4. Checkmate. He smiled smugly, "I don't play. I win." In 27 moves, I’d lost eight grand in cash. It was only a year ago that I had the American dream. Getting fired woke me up. I turned to hustling chess. Today I lost big- too big. My husband would be mad. Never lost this much. This is it. I’ll be a chess divorcee, alone with a clock & bishop. God, that’s sad. I headed home to face the music.

Mary Jo

Decades have passed since I was last in this house. The door is ajar. The fresh smell of rain overlays the familiar, particular odor of old oil paint and dry wood. I start up the stairs, my eyes on the square in the ceiling. I had doubted it's existence when it beckoned in my dreams,unremembered.
I swung the ladder up and planted it firmly, ascended, pushing open the hatch, and looked over the edge. What I saw was fabulous.

Sandy

The looped shape and golden glisten captured my eyes. For years, I floated freely, avoiding the hook’s lure and luster. Many times I approached, but retreated to safety, while others were caught, some freeing themselves at the last instant. Yet now I felt my jaw gently drop as I drew into range. The shimmer, the movement, the resignation to destiny. I closed my eyes and opened my lips. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Chris

It is 1975. Alice Cooper shows me a pistol. I will bury it in an Omaha alley. He is golfing and I caddy – my dad’s set-up. Alice drank but he aims over the 2 golfers, football icons Bob Devany and Charlie McBride, on hole 6. They’re hot over Alice’s play and hair. Long hair sack! Alice replies with 5 shots. They duck. He hands me the gun and $100. “Dump it.” I do. He opens that night with 18 wearing a Husker jersey.

Staley

I dreamed I was a butterfly who fluttered high up in the sky. Then I woke to form of man, there to be as I began. Now, am I man who dreamed of butterflight, or butterfly who dreams as man tonight.

Mark

A squirrel darts from curb to opposite lane back than stops. I applied my brakes just slowing. It shoots over the curb. The 2nd squirrel leaps from the stump only out 2 feet, before I could react back to the grass. I remain vigilant. The last squirrel runs out from under on coming traffic bounces in front of me before popping against a tree. “Was that a coordinated attack?” SPLART! A bird craps across my windshield!

Patricia

Even today as she walked down Van Dyne Place, she knew she would leave her boots tied together and slung over a lower rung on the train trestle. No one was going to call her country. The boots were always waiting for her when she returned. So although it’s after midnight as she steps off Grand Street and finds the flashlight in her handbag, she isn’t worried about anything except changing out of her good shoes.

Erik

“An OBE” he said. “What?” “An out of body experience”. What did he know? I walked home. I’d always been curious about the penthouse across the street. As I pondered, I found myself rising gently up and over the street. No one noticed. I dropped down behind the art deco top edge. Drapes were closed. Suddenly windows closest to me tilted open, leaving little space to remain standing. I looked down and woke up shaking.

Georgia

I bit a nail back as far as it would reach. Then, burnished it smooth to appear normal. The cuticle is bloody. It is only one nail, only one finger, the middle finger. I am flagging a fuck to you. In a week it will resurrect itself. No one will will see the misery or destruction. I'll buff the shape, push the skin back and add glitter polish to cover the damage. I'll go until the next bout of scolding words that force me to vomit in battle. I'll get that nail and hurt it and finger fuck you.

Kathryn

You sent me a "tweet." A cotton candy conversation boiled down to 140 characters. Fluffy and full in a deceptive way. I swallow it and it quickly dissolves leaving only a small, hard, crusty glob in the back of my mind. I feel cheated and find myself longing for more. A bird’s tweet is a complex message of joy, want, longing, fear, and desire. Think I’ll go outside and wait for a bird to sit at my feeder.

Cary

“Fire”

Old man writes a terrible book about his wife. Publishes it himself and takes it to the bookstore. The bookstore clerk says it’s a terrible book and insults the old man’s wife. Old man’s wife gets sick and dies.
Old man burns down the bookstore.
Old man writes another terrible book and takes it to the bookstore in its new location. Tells the clerk he’s written another book.
Clerk says, “What’s it called?”
“Fire,” says the old man. “It’s called Fire.”