It was too late to be eponymous. I was happy enough to be an emulator. But even then, my ideas were nothing but re-runs of re-runs. Like a high-school production of Macbeth.

Rowan’s arm burned and throbbed like the center of a neutron star as it went critical for minutes turned inside-out like hours. Standing in a wall, then huddled underneath the couch, she danced around the rim of consciousness, ripping at the seams of her

Not everybody sees Father. Not Mom, not Dad, not even my little brother, Andre, and he see lots of things. Me, I need to.

I thought to tell him I do not love raspberries, but blueberries, but he did not attend to the things I loved.

I hate walking into restaurants and cafes by myself to meet someone. I always feel awkward, as if no one will claim me. I'm hanging on the threshold now for an agonizing few moments scanning the room until I see my friend.“Hi!” she says, waving her cup at…

You want to be there, but not noticed. Alive, but not too alive. Because that's how you feel every day. Like an apology with legs.

Back when Richard was still skinny and mean, we fought at The Island. He broke a pool stick over my head. I bruised more than his ego. We fought over a woman, as always. We were best friends and that’s what we did. W

When we say "Nanoism is looking for twitter-fiction serials for its current contest," this is one example of what we mean.

'This dude’s whole life must be in this book. It’s like, a man diary.' The thought makes her laugh.

I ate a novel. I digested a film reel. I vomited poetry.

Tomorrow the authority smashes. Tonight we march, splash, carve letters in wet paint from room to room until steel blades bend. The letters will tilt in shadows gliding over the walls to mask our tales born of fractured wrists and the ghosts, our keepers.

Initially, she had no hopes about his impending arrival, scrawny as he was, until realizing that, because he was a boy, because he was new around here, he might want to wrestle.

“We need to figure out dad’s funeral arrangements.” Jack’s voice was monotone, as if it wasn’t sure whether it really existed. He paused for a moment; it lasted either a split second or a day. He couldn’t tell.

Keisha was the name she gave us. She said she had no father and no last name. We wrote her down as Keisha B. We already had a Keisha A. She was about twelve though she told us fourteen. Her eyes were older than we dared think. We knew her mother had been murdered and that's…

We buried her upright, in the stance of warriors.