By Hazel Prior

I could have chosen anything, but I chose the butterfly. The transformation was relatively easy, just a shrinkage and a sprouting of two foldable wings. My new body was light and convenient, could fly in through open windows, and what’s more, could carry a needle and thread on its back.

Greed, hatred, jealousy, cruelty—just some of the qualities I stitch into the minds of humans in the dead of night. They are born with such simple white souls, so very dull; that is, until I pierce them with my dark embroidery. I am an expert at my craft. Sometimes I’ll just add a small, firmly-anchored knot. Sometimes I will criss-cross the whole thing with sprawling patterns of black stitch-work. The results emerge in all sorts of interesting ways in the lives of the humans. I watch with satisfaction. I love my sewing. It is not so much a hobby, more a vocation.

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By Edd B. Jennings

Fionna drowsed and then woke wide-eyed. The weight of his head lay on her breasts, which he had commandeered as a pillow. Archibald snored. Most of the candles she lit at dusk had burned to stubs, telling her the time must be somewhere deep in the night. Some of the candles had burned out. Those left guttered and flickered, creating a world of fanciful shadows that enlarged and diminished as they played a drama across the wall.

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By Suzanne Nielsen

Yesterday I decided to buy a gas mask at a garage sale. The mask was olive green with tattered ties which were long enough to choke three heads. I paid $2.35 for it. The woman wanted $4.00, and she spoke in a gravelly voice that price was firm. I spent the afternoon sitting in her rickety papasan chair that took up half the garage waiting for a firm buyer for the mask.

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By Teague von Bohlen

She and her sister once saw their father dancing, with their mother out in the scruff between the house and the barn, dimly lit by the forty-watt on the back porch. Their father was surprisingly gentle for a man with such rough hands, dried like late autumn apples. His head rested on hers; they swayed to music that wasn’t there. Or maybe it was just the wind and the cicadas.

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By Dina Paulson

Like us, the city was built on water. We headed for the calle nearest us, walking fast to elude tourists pouring onto the main strada. El bacchanale, the famous comedy group, was touring in our turquoise place. Fans of their humor—vulgar, bilingual (equally vulgar in both languages), live cunnilingus—were overweight and wore clothing with strange flower prints. We saw them from our windows and made a beeline for the canal, for dinner, a romantic walk, or anything else we could only do at night.

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By Dylan Martin

I didn’t want to leave, though it was now getting late. I needed to get back to my dorm. Storm clouds slid above us, swelling and rising; and the rain was just starting to fall. In a corner of her bedroom, the radiator hummed. The sky took on a dull shade of pink. Luna was sleeping beside me, and somewhere off in the distance, I heard an alarm. And it was cold in the room; I felt Luna beside me. I could make out the shy sound of her breathing. The sheets hardly moved with each breath that she took. And it was because of this shyness I decided to leave…before the rain could take over the city.

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