You are only who you are to him. Waitresses treat you weird and ask questions..

I don’t fully recall when I realized that the smoke detector was going off

You didn’t want to manipulate me like you did the others. Should I feel bad for the others? 

Other times it’s about motels in Nebraska or 
gum ball machines or a close-up of a woman’s 
face.

But reach for it . . .

I suggested we arm wrestle as I did with every boy. I was a pick me and for my spreadsheet.

The room smelled like beer and sweat and crushed velvet. The air seemed to hum, hot and full of dust particles and guitar feedback. 

Tempestuous is the language we carry in our head, the music of new words and lovers, the cities we dip into on a lost weekend. Jeanne, the eponymous narrator of Arielle Burgdorf’s novel Jeanne,

They always think I’ll wave to them.

While many struggle to adapt to the largeness and complexity of NYC, Escobar thrived and used it to inform her work.

It is the night before I will meet my future ex wife. Neither of the mirrors are skinny.

But also, the clock . . .

I’m talking to Siena Foster-Soltis on a patio overlooking the lights of Los Angeles. The hillside home, in the ultra-luxe enclave of Bel-Air, is an apt location for Siena’s latest play, Over the

She wasn’t cruel. She smiled when he refilled her water glass. She asked about his mother. They had sex with the lights on.

That sudden clarity pierced through her: the baby’s soft blanket; the Frappuccino sweating in her hand, the grocery list in the diaper bag. All of this could change and when it did, she would cease to exist.

Some girls become Liz. Some girls want to be her. Some just want her. A fictional short story about Liz, Richard and an anonymous anti-hero.

Ten years ago, my work bestie at the job I had and the life I had at the time, Tedrick, rubbed me down in cruelty-free coconut oil. He said, “You’re a beautiful mess.” I shone in holiday light. 

I

It was summer heat 
And the breath of living someone else’s life 

The glass always refilling / and fracturing his life

I have been waiting to become a better writer so that I can understand them.

Known for editing Fence fiction and co-founding Cash 4 Gold Books, Harris Lahti’s debut prose, Foreclosure Gothic presents itself with highs and lows, the underside of the once-coined-and-believed

(Checking texts over lunch) Jon Jon Jon Jon Jon Jon Jon. That’s how my brain works.

I remember listening to you play “Ashokan Farewell” on the violin, your head bowed, the notes clear and sorrowful

The forecast predicted devastation,
So I scattered sandbags around my house,
Closed the window,
And waited for the deluge.
Fingers gripped my hair and
Yanked me back like a bucking

If I read Pan before I started taking Lexapro I would’ve cried.

Sisters remain sisters even when one is going through nuclear-grade poisoning and the other is directing a DIY haircut through a phone screen.