By Lisa Mangini Mabel positions wood over the glowing newsprint ashes, and blows until they catch. Stephen flings a folded-up greeting card with hearts and glitter into the flames, a plastic bottle of scotch, half-gone, passing between them.
By Sarah Freligh She asked me once what’s it like not to dream and I said: Nothing. Imagine nothing, the vast black of it. Like climbing into a mineshaft, the way my dad did every day until the earth opened up and swallowed him and a dozen other men.
By Connor Walsh
The dark flees from the beams of light like a thousand timid spiders to the surviving shadows. Cursing and wielding a fifth of his sense, Benjamin stumbles out of his father’s running station wagon and kisses the crumbling courtyard, bloodying his lip.