By: Tom Nealon

From JERRYCUMMUMBLE to ZANY

By: Marc Weidenbaum

Think of the reverberations.

By: Nathaniel Rich

When the cheap ink began to fade, they seemed only to grow in value.

By: Mikita Brottman

They were irrationally overjoyed.

By: Kathryn Davis

One day toward the end of naptime Raymond slipped me a card.

By: Leah Hennessey

I was not available, but the entity to which I belonged was fictional.

By: Ben Greenman

He looked at the soup can and smiled. Then he signed it.

By: Lydia Millet

It was Frank N. Furter who compelled me most.

By: Heather Kapplow

When I sifted the shards through my fingers, they felt good.

By: Marc Weidenbaum

I keep the subtitles on at night.

By: Debbie Millman

A small, white ceramic glass poodle with tufts of hot-pink fur.

By: Anita Kunz

There are so many things I don’t know about her.

By: Jenny Kroik

Seeing what’s missing is as important as seeing what’s there.

By: Chris Piascik

As much as I rode it, I also just liked to look at it.

By: Tom Nealon

What are the true origins of Brunswick stew?