1. Fall in love. It should be noted that there are different versions of love, most of which include one person parasitically sucking off the other, stronger person, but this still can be used to the writer’s benefit. What you do is you label anything love that you can’t figure out, or when a person acts inconsistent—one day happy, one day angry (like father)—and you sleep with that person and you listen to their hopes and dreams and they never ask you about yours and you don’t care because deep inside you know this isn’t the real thing but the sex parts feel good and you really really really like their nose, but inside you know it won’t last.

Welcome to December 2012, travelers!

I’ll jump right into this editorial biz: I love it when a submission stick with me.

After the initial read, the hold request, the dozens of other submissions that come and go… it’s nice to reach the end of the reading period and vividly remember the stuff I held onto. Take, for example, Addison Clift’s “The Passenger.” That was one of the first stories we added to the pending pile, way back in early September. But when the reading period closed, I knew I wanted it in this issue. I remembered it. More than that–every time I stepped into a subway car, I though about it, as if any moment a fellow commuter would shed his skin and devour the other passengers. (This was especially true when a crazy guy boarded the train and started talking about how he was President Obama’s brother and how Dr. King “never took shit from no one,” and then had a long discourse with an invisible friend that involved the Kennedy assassination and several unkind comments about women. “Phara Koltana I am your vessel!” wasn’t far off.)

I let the mayor’s plane buzz Chicago’s lakeshore twice before I reach into the cockpit with my mind and jam the yoke sideways. I fully expect Zooster to show up and fight me, but not before I execute a few barrel rolls and then land the plane in the middle of Grant Park. My name is Rogue Agent. I used to be a hero called Z-pack, Chicago’s favorite sidekick, fighting for order and justice.

Now all I want is to see a picture of the mayor’s wet pants on the front page of the Tribune tomorrow.

Morning… Jesus came down and said I could see him in French toast if I wanted.

I said, “Jesus,” addressing him directly, “that’s pretty god damned clichéd.” Jesus said that that hurt his feelings because he’d seen me in a pancake. He might cry special tears now.

My name is Dave and I am dead. The doctors said it was a brain aneurysm no one could’ve predicted. I was only 38. Despite the circumstances, I convinced my boss Andrew to let me keep my job; minus health coverage.

“You’re dead.” Andrew told me while checking off pages on his metallic clipboard. The clipboard made it seem he was writing something important, but it was only inventory.

“Dead people don’t need benefits.” Andrew continued. “They don’t use prescriptions, and they don’t need check-ups.” He flipped a page and thumbed through a box of Payday chocolate bars, marking with his pen as he counted.