Reasons to Never Return now available on Kindle!

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Just a quick message to all the eBook people out there—we didn’t forget about you! Reasons to Never Return is now available on Kindle. If virtual text is your thing, don’t you worry, you can add us to your collection right here!

Ace out!




Back in 2012, a group of six or so friends and I sat together at a hookah bar and discussed making a home for our writing. Mostly, all of the writing concocted went unseen unless emailed to a friend or two for advice. The writing sat collecting virtual dust on hard drives—waiting for that moment to be sent out into the world and be appreciated by additional thirsty eyes. A month or so later, a website was launched. At first, it was initially just to get all of the writers and artists I knew together to have an online workshop where they can share and comment on each other’s work. The work was no longer homeless. With a destination we began cranking out more work. The proper motivation was set in place.

Slowly, over time, I began recruiting other writers, some from across the U.S. and Canada that I’d met through WordPress, others I’d met in Los Angeles through daily living (classes, parties, etc.). Eventually, the idea of starting up a publishing company began to germinate in my mind. Of course, like most thoughts, the idea itched at me until finally all of the research seemed to align and the process finally began.

Now two and a half years later, it is with great honor and pleasure to announce the release of Paper Plane Pilot Publishing’s first anthology Reasons to Never Return. This anthology is a collection of poetry, prose, short stories, and flash fiction by fifteen Paper Plane Pilot voices ranging from traditional to experimental writing.

Thank you so much for your continued readership. Without your support, our work would have no home.


-Sara Khayat


To learn more about each writer, visit our about us page.

To view or purchase Reasons to Never Return click the image below.



3 year 2 months


Things you have taught me:
How to play the lottery
How to light a fire place with the stove
How to separate business from personal life
How to speak to your elders 
When to use your card
When to use cash
How to treat a house guest
How to cook a good steak dinner
How to not assume
How to drive a stick shift
What horses to pick at the races
How to take a shot of tequila “the right way”
What to say when you get pulled over
When to stop talking
What it feels like to be left with no explanation
How it feels to be heart broken
You’ve taught me a lot
I will remember it all
One thing you didn’t teach me
Was how to forget you

A Dedication to The Sexiest Man I Know


He does not know that he is beautiful. He wakes up,

smiles, eyes blue, not that cliché “blue as the sky crap,”

but the kind of blue that makes you remember

the first time that you saw clear crisp ocean water,


the kind of ocean that they only

advertise on the Royal Caribbean commercials,

the kind of blue that invades sea sand tans and inhabits

the textured green strokes of seaweed.

He is a painting that could only be painted by the hands

of stardust and supernova explosions. A beauty

that could only be admired in Greek sculptures,

the very image of Achilles himself.


If we have evolved from apes, God must have

taken the most divine ape and

molded his evolution to excellence,


a man that has been put together carefully by hand,

pieced together, stitched as if a quilt was being made

to fit the very patterns of the Earth’s terrain.


And let me not forget about his mind,

the type of mind that creates things

like E = mc2

he didn’t make that up but if he

could have, he would.


The type of mind that if it were

physically capable to visualize

I would think of the Himalayas,


Ha Long Bay,

places that are treasures to the world.


Don’t think I forgot about his soul.

It’s what I think about when I visualize

a heart beating, pumping blood vessel

to vessel, feeding life

vein by vein.




Cajun Fries

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“Fully loaded,
safety off,” the TV says.
“This here’s a recipe
for unpleasantness,” I finish.
And of course,
my brain complains
it’s an eighty-ton tank I’m using
as a toddler’s first trike.

A little harsh,
on my brain’s part,
but not too far-fetched—
after all,
as we speak
my hand’s deep in
a greasy pool
of Cajun fries
from Five Guys,
and I’m sitting here
watching late-night reruns
of Firefly.

I learned this trick
where I lean back
and take a sip
from a cup, balancing
on my chest and chin,
tipping it in toward my mouth,
slurping through the straw
without any hands.

It’s at this point
my brain cuts in
with a outraged cry of
“Why, why, why?”

“What’s wrong, brain?” I ask.

“You know,” it says.

“Yes. I do,” I sigh. I’m sick of
the sass my brain’s slinging,
so I don a seductive smile and say,
“I know how to cheer you up.”

“Yeah, right.”

“We’re gonna role-play.”

“I don’t know…”

“You do know.
You know everything.
You’re the man.
You’re a man.
You wear your chest hair proud
and drink your whiskey neat.”


“That’s right, goddammit.
You walk with your
chin to the stars
and a cigar in your mouth
chopping lumber for fun
and fighting douchebags in bars.
Does that get you going? Huh?”

“Mmm, yeah, keep going.”

“You know what else?
You’re going to the gym tonight.
You’re gonna lift that barbell
to the sky and back.”

“Oh, yes, don’t stop!”

“One day you’ll wake up
with abs ribbed like the ridges
of the Rocky Mountains.”

“Oh, God, yes!”

“And that novel you’ve
been writing?
You’re gonna crank that out,
And when it’s done,
Hemingway himself
is gonna burst from the ground
and give you the heartiest
of handshakes.”

“Oh! I think I love you!”

“Yes! And you’re gonna finish
this poem, too. And it’s going to be
<Note to self: finish this stanza>

“Uh,” my brain says. “Oh, fuck.
I think I’m done now.
That was amazing!”

I slurp down
the last fry
and wipe
my dirty fingers
on my tank top.

“Psychic, though?” the TV says,
“That sounds like something
out of science fiction,”

“We live in a
spaceship, dear,” I finish
and promptly fall asleep.



And she said over and over again—
there’s no place like it.

we only see what we feel emotional responses conditioned by this earth we are worms washed up on the concrete as a result of the sky’s catharsis after having relinquished emotions onto the earth we are vagrant once we find our way beneath the cracks once we find shelter in dirt after the vulnerability the humiliation is settled we begin to start anew crawl home pieces now of a ruthless whole a ruthless earth with its dizzying tendencies dizzying pride dizzying dancing he said, “please remember the dancing of the garden and the warmth of the sidewalk” I want to be the concrete I want to hold warmth in the palms of my small shaking hands

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I saw you and I didn’t feel a thing. Finally.

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