My Aunt once told me that love comes uninvited. She offered no context, and because of my young age I did not demand one. She was a widow who fell in love at an inopportune time. My disapproving family called… Continue Reading
They came for our water. They asked for two centimeters off the top of our oceans. In exchange, everyone would receive a gift. The world united in its disagreement. If they’d pointed a weapon at us, we’d have complied. But… Continue Reading
Often, I travel the world on my way to work. A shortcut on my desktop takes me to places, most of which I’ve captured myself. The rest of the photos either come from travel blogs, or are moiré-patterned scans from… Continue Reading
editorial by Camille Gooderham Campbell From the Editors Our thoughts are with everyone who was in Hurricane Sandy’s path. On a lighter note, here are some impressive figures for you: editor Joseph Kaufman has now read and commented on over… Continue Reading
Murray’s flashlight beam swept left and right as he walked the power plant’s gangways. The map he’d been given was straightforward and his route simple but it was late. He was tired. On the third time through, his mind wandered… Continue Reading
1) Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Hollywood Hills Breaking out of your grave will be the hardest part. Remember not to panic; you’re already dead. Once you punch and kick and claw your way to the surface, enjoy the serenity of… Continue Reading
If only rotted flesh had more appeal, then Peter wouldn’t have a problem. If Halloween were about swans gliding across glass-smooth waters, or roses in full, fat bloom, then he would have no trouble choosing an image to carve. As… Continue Reading
Listen to “It Could Be Us” by Alexander Burns, read by M.Sherlock: [display_podcast] Alexander Burns lives in Fort Worth, TX. He writes because he doesn’t have a basement in which to build robots or time machines. His work has appeared… Continue Reading
The girls in the library have an ongoing competition: strangest thing ever found between the pages of a returned book. There’s the predictable — novelty bookmarks, unsent postcards. The disgusting — toenail clippings, hair, an old slice of toast. The… Continue Reading
Jacob’s studio was a maze of one-foot square canvases stacked seven feet high, piled on chairs, hanging from walls and even a few nailed to the ceiling. The artist was a small, wiry man who wore black horn-rimmed glasses and… Continue Reading