fiction

There’s no such thing as nonfiction. This might seem like the title of yet another essay on the merits of essayistic writing as its own genre and not just a…

Dayo looked towards the train terminal and thought of all the ways he could die right now. Jumping in front of it, or stampeded by even-toed pouch animals—let’s call them…

The president is silent. To get into office, he had launched an erratic and often unintelligible campaign—an army for space, anti-immigration, anti-plant and animal, pro-large, expensive, and medieval wall, pro-flak…

There’s one behind the house, between the stacks of empty oil drums. She can hear it mewling. More voices join in, a miniature chorus of cartoonish pitches. This is how…

She told me she had no time for flowers and prayers, and I knew there was something wrong. We went on one more date and I ended it there. I…

We do a lot of work behind the scenes, but the writers create the work so they deserve the most credit and profit for it. They are the reason we even have a project to work on in the first place.

The small presses are absolutely essential in getting work into print that the big publishers won’t touch. It’s where you find the most originality and risk-taking, both essential to great writing.

New Patient Intake Form Instructions: Please answer the questions, then return this form to the woman at the desk. Name: My Japanese great-grandmother immigrated to California. She shed her birth…

Over time, The Blasted Tree has increasingly featured odd and eccentric content that just doesn’t seem to belong elsewhere, projects that beg for an out-of-the-box take on publication format or materials.

If this is heaven it’s very disappointing, I’ve the exact same painting and clock. Another not dead day, this one sunny. That’s something. I hear pottering and smell soup. Mary…

  Part 1: Figures, Forms   Tessa said that whenever anyone spoke to her, she saw what they said. Objects, pieces of speech appeared. She would wave her hand in…

“The shoes are cursed,” I mutter, as the number that’s always floating in front of my eyes drops from fifty years to seven seconds. I hastily pull away my hands…

I used to wait in my car for him to call. I’d sit in my parking spot outside my parents’ building where I was staying and look at the moon,…

As an older millennial, I find it impossible to date anyone who isn’t named Thad. It’s become so dire that I assign them nicknames: Trucker Hat Thad, Clown Thad, and,…