Z.B. Wagman is an editor for the Deep Overstock Literary Journal and a co-host of the Deep Overstock Fiction podcast. When not writing or editing he can be found behind the desk at the Beaverton City Library, where he finds much inspiration.Continue Reading

“My little angel.” It was what my mama called me since before I could remember. She said that I was the most beautiful child to ever exist–her “gift from god.” According to her, when I was born the nurses couldn’t look away. They said that I was the most beautifulContinue Reading

“What’s wrong now?” The exasperation in Thea’s voice echoed around the auditorium. As soon as her words broke through the scene, the two actors in front of her retreated to opposite corners of the stage like boxers who had just heard the bell. Thea couldn’t help but sigh as sheContinue Reading

The victim was skinny. Too skinny. Detective Sarah hated seeing it. And it was a sight she had gotten used to. These girls with their bottle-blonde hair, legs the size of twigs, probably wanted to be a model. A life of glitz and glam. Probably met a boy and endedContinue Reading

“The fireflies came out tonight. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in a while. I know how much you like them.” His voice hummed like the softest of sandpaper against her skin. “There weren’t that many of them. Only a couple of pairs. Still, they were like tiny starsContinue Reading

1592 – The Holy Roman Empire, Prague A sharp knocking jarred Judah from his deep slumber. The darkness outside his window did little to reassure him. He was much too old for midnight visitors. “What is it?” he called, his voice choked with the grit of sleep. “Maharal!” called aContinue Reading

The snow came early that year. The shortened days made so much shorter by the heavy mist that hung over the city. Merideth rarely found her way outdoors but when she did she was met by chill winds and icy walks. It was not something she sought out willingly. AndContinue Reading

The only thing I remember about my nana is her hands. They were not the soft, Toll House baking hands of America’s favorite grandma. They were hard. Hard and wrinkled and full of calluses. They were the hands of a woman who spent far too many years out in theContinue Reading

Long ago, in a secluded village by the sea, there lived a boy. Every morning the boy would wake up before dawn and cook breakfast for his parents. He would gather his father’s fishing gear and help his dad into his great seal-skin coat. Just as the sun began toContinue Reading