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Bo could live with his contradictions. They were what made him whole.

He drowned under a different name, a fake name chiseled in German.

Ideology, all of us inanimate in the face of the onslaught.

Of course the despicable wretch would beg her to forgive him again.

The school’s committed to an all-sterile facility by the year 2025.

A painter dies of a heart attack before finishing a portrait of Churchill.

Their marriage had dwindled to a separation and a running joke.

I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”

What that truth is doesn’t matter, finally, because of your persistence.

Do the work. Every day. Take a step back and see if you love it.

Heat heat and the sky a flame of sapphire, even rocks blazing.

They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.

It was just what it was. Sex with someone who was not her husband.

“Tell me how it felt”—he narrows his eyes—“when you first saw her.”

Let us not forget the desuetude of nailed-shut carousels.

I was born hating paths, apostasy. We came alive wrong for union.

Cold metal stands upon my brow; Spiders seek my heart.

Please look away from Mars dangling so angry in so much darkness.

Death pointed the gun in his socket and blew off some of his skull.

It’s been months since the cat died and still we find her hair.

“Then I can promise to kill either of you if I ever see you again.”

Every touch electric, every taste you, every smell, every cry.

Sometimes they revert to trickery, apple their venom with a smile.

We want no truck with death. Not now while we’re busy feasting on figs.

shoulds & shouldn’ts unwound now to dids & didn’t

You are so small and fragile now. A shell you cradle in your open palm.

Every morning I wipe the sweat from the hollow of my master’s throat.

I saw her bed wasn’t slept in and knew—something had happened.

Despair: Janet Burroway’s first Narrative Magazine six-word story.

Not every fate was alike. Not everyone ended up paired off in love.