By: Lydia Millet

It was Frank N. Furter who compelled me most.

By: Dmitri Siegel

Our sound did not immediately find an audience, nor did it gradually find one.

By: William Drenttel

An artichoke sat on our kitchen windowsill for months.

By: Heather Kapplow

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

By: Joshua Glenn

A wonder cabinet for our fellow enlightened savages.

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: Miranda Mellis

When I lost the black metal sequin lace scarf she didn’t notice.

By: Neil LaBute

“One baby octopus in liquid.”

By: Ben Katchor

It was, in fact, a discarded woman’s jewelry case.

By: Laura Lippman

I knew the hard parts that looked simple, and the simple parts that looked hard.

By: Joe Yonan

I worked on it for weeks. The rope flew, my skin burned.

By: Geoff Manaugh

It was both hermetic and omnipresent.