Lindsay Miles's "The Scene and the Story" is just that: a scene, a story, a story, a story; a breaking of the rules and an inability to pinpoint how, in its soft syntax, its lofty closeness, its deceptive straightforwardness. It lingers—joyfully, awkwardly, playfully—in the seeking of an unanswerable why, and revels in the possibility of truth, of untruth, of the scene, of the story.

emilie kneifel's "Holding the Opposite of a Phone on the Bus" is a crowded and jostling fragment that finds space in a moment, at once familiar and unfamiliar. kneifel's sideways language settles into the reader and asks us to re-orient ourselves (for an instant), a spacious moment of our own, before parting ways.

Constance Bougie’s "Queer Objects" moves—slippery and unhurriedly—through an ephemeral inventory of feeling, of identity: it removes meaning to assign essence, and invites the reader to fall into a new mode of being and observation at once.