Hey everyone! It’s one of my three favorite times of the year: the times I sit in front of my computer with a newly edited and formatted copy of Defenestration awaiting its release, my only job at that point being to write an editorial. And I never know what to write! I could claim that my perpetual writer’s block is due to the sheer number of these things I’ve been expected to create; 2018 marks the 15th year we’ve been doing this, and I’d much rather you read the short stories and poems instead of whatever I’m cobbling together here.

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Conventional wisdom would dictate that potato chips were unlikely to lead a woman to her soulmate. But Sarah didn’t subscribe to conventional wisdom, nor did she eat conventional chips. Much like beer snobs only drank craft brews, she only ate artisanal chips. They were a thing. It was 2018, America was going to hell in handbasket, and people were finding solace in all sorts of small batch comforts.

If you were a hurricane hanging out with other hurricanes in hurricane heaven, you might get caught up in some interesting conversation. Hurricane So-And-So might say: “I made eight, EIGHT, different landfalls. I was fierce, boy. I was a baaaaaad storm.”

Republican Jesus rode into town on a beautiful Sunday on his brand-new luxury Mule-cedes. He had worked hard and deserved what got. Not everyone possessed his skills, like the totally earned water-walking ability. It was good to reap the benefits of his life.