The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.

You see the flower's form leak into itself. A self. Some things in America still make sense. I open my junk mail, Disney red. Your family. Liquid uttered out into the night freezes your dreams undone. Veracity leaves its whispers. Make an orchestra instead. Every bitten breath

He stared down the neck of the guitar like a rifle sight. The shelves in the glass case between us were lined with switchblades, laptops, engagement rings and arrowheads. A small fan on the counter blew only on the clerk. BEWARE: GUARD FERRETS, said a sign taped to the side of the register.

He had kept the bulk of his music library, which covered every genre from obscure Sub-Saharan drum tracks recorded on cell-phones to honey-tongued R&B to Norwegian black metal, in his parents' basement. It was the only place, he had argued, that could support the weight of it all.

I asked Grandpa how he got the silver medal he’s so proud of, and he said he got it for shooting a Northern Viet bastard right in the face. He said the…

She said that because his mother had given birth to him in a tub filled with day-old water and bless-ed salt, Atar‘atheh must have been responsible for his conception in the first place.

$138,000 into the story, there is nowhere else to go. I spent my twenty-seventh year typing letters of application, the nerves in each hand wrecked by…

156,000 into the story, the room is empty.   The man I have started dating listens to my stories of how the dinners at the American Academy would unfold,…