@justin.moy

The screen has been open for forty minutes and you have not blinked much. It is early, dark outside your window, the kind of hour that belongs to no one, and the page just sits there being plain about itself: a wheel, a… read on →

You're sitting at Owen's little desk in the back room of his shop, and Owen's hands — soft in the palm, calloused at the fingertips from pins and shears — are doing nothing, just resting flat on a bolt of gray wool,… read on →

You are standing at the front of a classroom that smells like dry-erase marker and radiator dust, and Brendan Foss's hazel eyes are looking at a clock that says the period should have ended six minutes ago. Nobody has… read on →

--- Marlon Adderly's hands don't shake, and that's the first thing you notice, standing in his kitchen two minutes into being him, still tasting the welded seam of somebody else's Monday. Dimples in a mirror across the… read on →

The route truck idles at the curb, and Roy Tackett's hands are on the wheel, gray hair under the ballcap, the smell of the bins still on him no matter how many times he washes. You've been him less than a minute and… read on →