by Will Musgrove Brandon Morgan I blame the time I stuck a fork in an outlet for why I can’t sleep. I was four, and mom was in the other room because dad was somewhere else. How’d I get the fork? Have you ever gone to set the table and thought: Don’t we have more forks than this? That’s how I got the fork. The shock singed off my little eyebrows, shriveled my fingernails into miniature raisins. Now, I get an occasional electric shiver, an occasional bout of insomnia. Mom says

by Will Musgrove David Libeert Sitting on an upside-down milk crate behind The Family Diner’s kitchen, I stare at an open Dumpster, wondering what’s inside. Garbage bags full of half-eaten food? Rats? Body parts? Like a bad habit, I create and recreate elaborate possibilities. After each scenario, I repeat to myself I’m not that important, that the Dumpster’s imaginary contents won’t make me a somebody, won’t give me any purpose. I’m here visiting Jerry, the guy dad has beate