David Greenwood's stories have appeared in Electric Literature, Fence, Tin House online, and other journals. He has an MFA from Brooklyn College, where he won the Himan Brown award for fiction. To receive a free David Greenwood micro-novel every week or so, subscribe to The Bubble Cannon.

David Greenwood throws off his grey jacket. He imagines soaring by night over all the state capitals, naming them anew: Willow. Crevasse. Mt Luminor. Mistletoe may account for his alacrity in kissing. Orogeny springs to mind. He has been compared, favorably, to an egg. The first days of his sabbatical were spent in astonishment. A faint glow may be accounted for by physical processes unrelated to personal greatness. The card outside his door states residents will be temperate of yearning. I saw “rnbw sherbet” among his receipts. Fish, science tells us, developed lungs millennia before crawling onto shore. So David Greenwood developed his craft. A simple oval is perhaps more apt than an egg. Also in his receipts was a ticket to the opening of the Ancestral Caves and Baths. Low-gravity bicycling proved unbearable. The impulse to rent a sports car because it’s your birthday isn’t always to be corrected. David Greenwood sacrificed elements of his once elaborate toilet to spend more time with loved ones. His days had seemed to pile up like the masonry of a grand edifice. He called it, privately, the Szechuan Palace Noodle Factory. Ivy establishes itself after long endurance. Character may be described as the evolution of disparate sorrows toward a unified core. Science tells us the core of black holes affects the trajectory of the “light cone,” abruptly ending time. Certain things will have to be understood as lost. He found a light blue thread in the grey jacket pocket. David Greenwood shuts his eyes and pulls.