Ryan Griffith We called our screamer Sonya, though not her real name of course, as such intimacies were not permitted. We kept her in the garage next to the Peloton, where she sat silent, gazing at an empty wall as if waiting for the cinema to begin. Head razored close…

Kristie Smeltzer  It’s amazing how quickly introducing ourselves with different names escalated to banging strangers in airport restrooms. We’re not swingers, not in the real world—it’s just this airport game we play.  At the bar’s end, I spot my mark: wedding band on the hand holding his nearly empty rocks…

Eric Scot Tryon It was a Tuesday morning when the man stepped in front of the train that runs behind our house.  The train that runs behind our house. It’s dependable metallic chug has been the heartbeat of our home for nearly three decades. Every four hours, sunrise to sundown,…