Dana Diehl is a scientist. Her stories run the gamut of scientific inquiry: biology, ecology, zoology, anatomy, astronomy and geology all make cameos in her debut collection, Our Dreams Might Align. Whether through worms or wormholes, Diehl’s characters are experimenting, as is she. In the opening story, “We Know More,” a couple are both victimized and…

1. Spent After they fucked for the first time, their faces still stinging from the sleet coming down outside, she said, “That was lovely.” She said it again the next day and that night. She would say it whenever they fucked. When brow was lifted from brow, when knees fell slack, when toes curled or…

The baby is born at home. This isn’t planned. In a blizzard in Wisconsin, she slips out of her mother and is wrapped, a slush of vernix and blood, in a white towel. The mother’s womb begins to pulse, again, trying to get back to its place in her empty belly, like it was before.…

Snow is falling in our bedroom and Arden is crying. I’m kneeling naked at the foot of the mattress, pointing a flashlight at the ceiling. “Well?” my wife says. She’s sitting up in bed, propped with pillows, cradling our month-old daughter. “I’ll get up,” I say. I stand on the bed with my head bent…

I like to work when it’s dark. When the morning rush starts, half my day is over. From the ovens I glimpse customers’ tired bored faces as they wait in line to start their day. At least I don’t have to deal with them. Too many customers have unrealistic expectations. My muffin isn’t golden enough,…

On behalf of women, don’t share the story your friend just emailed you about her fight with her husband. There is nothing to gain by it; any half-intelligent person would realize that any discussion of this matter with another husband, yours, is going to fall into gender divisions. Men stick up for each other. Besides,…

He opened his hand to reveal the peach pit he’d found under her pillow that morning. It rested dry and dull against his wedding ring. His other hand dropped from a pat on Lalo’s shoulder to a suggestive caress of her hip through her nightdress. She felt her skin retract against the bone but didn’t…

There were six of them — none taller than five feet or shorter than three feet. They were a pack of black eyes and bloody lips and spiky hair. Every time Walcott drove by them he looked the other way — he never wanted any trouble. He just wanted to go home, eat dinner, and…

It was cold outside, intolerable, so after dinner we resigned ourselves to looking through old photographs and drinking hot cider. The dinner itself had been lovely — roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing. After eating, we could hardly move. “I’m so full,” we complained. “My stomach is going to pop,” we whined. We loaded the fireplace…

We take the I-88 offramp after a charred billboard that reads BITO and follow what signs haven’t been faded by the years and the weather. Aude, my girlfriend, wants answers, definitive answers, and for those we will visit the Oracle. We’ve been fighting about this for days, and here we are. It’s not worth fighting…

The first to die was Mrs. Jane Hanscombe, a former teacher at Shaker Lane Elementary in Littleton (2nd grade) and the longtime widow of John “Jack” Hanscombe (rest his soul) … Mrs. Hanscombe, who had at the moment of death reached out for and grasped with her time-gnarled hand a box of noodle soup. And…

At three in the morning my ex-boyfriend started to beat on my front door. It had been three years since I’d seen him, and I had stopped sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed. I lay listening to his fists slam into the door as he shouted, “I forgive you! Open the door!…