She follows the signs deeper as a weight in her gut grows colder with every step. It’s almost been long enough that she’s forgotten the finer details. Almost.
People wanted to see the girl who’d disappeared and come back. They wanted to see Romy—who insisted she could not be seen.
You are thirteen so, of course, I am convinced I still have some say over you.
“Commerce!” Emily shouted. “The hoarding and ceding and exchange of power. I see no clearer path into the souls of human people.”
That’s the problem with photographs, isn’t it? They remind you who is missing.
What we liked most of all was each other. All three of us, the glorious fabric of the relationship, the family we made of ourselves—but we were losing the exhilaration we’d once felt, the wild emotional loops of our shared-identity roller coaster.
The audience Q and A begins, and someone asks about the relationship between kink and queerness.
Do not fear your moments of sorrow, your deep frustration, the force of your being. I have made you strong enough to want and not receive.
I’d tilt myself and roll to each side on the dirt, offering the bees new areas of my body.
A house birthed me and will likely be the death of me.
Even at their best, in-laws were the occupational hazard of loving someone else.
Melinda’s violation of their agreement—to stay the same for each other, forever—was so profound that she split their shared sphere in two.
My mind drifted to the almost-lycanthropic being I’d imagined her becoming, half wolf, half researcher, neither coming back to me, dead or alive.
It was during my third year of teaching the saints at Holy Trinity that the burning began.
If there were any justice in the world, I would have been born a wolf. Instead, I’m a seventh grader.
Lori was in real, actual danger, but it was easy to convince herself she was not.
As the dentist works, her giant belly touches my arm and my head, and I think the baby kicks me.
The family in my novel is like this arowana. Born to hurt things. They are hunters, even when there is nothing left to hunt.
La-la land, she called it, that place her daughter went that she would never go.
My mother isn’t dead. I know this the way I know that squares are also rectangles, and that the sun is also a star.
What kind of story would you like to write?
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