Fiction

    Driving. The radio is playing a song, the words I remember but the notes I’ve forgotten. Someone is standing on the median. As we get closer, he gets larger and I can see his face. It is dirty. He looks at me. His eyes are vacant.

One couch for sale—72 inches wide, 34 inches deep, and 30 inches tall—in Vallejo, California. 

Click.
I adjusted my party hat and flashed a smile at the camera.“Not yet,” my sister said, leaning across the table. “I haven’t lit the candles.”

It’s the first day of school, ten minutes past eight, when some kid ambles through our classroom door.
Scuffed sneakers and faded jeans. Eyes somewhere between gray and blue and green. Scraped-up elbows and a banged-up lunchbox.
Ordinary.

By Neima Nour

By Anastasia Membrino

SKRCCHHH. 

Suddenly the disk on my back comes to a stop. The needle is lifted up and the record is exchanged. 

By Silas Weeks

By Multiple Authors

Blank paper and sharpened pencil = possibilities.- Britta Fitzgerald

Looking out window, imaging rounding second. - Mitchell Catlett

Overthinking? I don't, maybe I do.  - Wren Paschel-Harbour

By Oliver Crainich

By Freya Heinzer

By Multiple Authors

On a screen that isn't reality. - William Addo

Why is my body slowing down? - Sabrina Borrows

Is all lost? Or am I? - Damien Lilly

School should’ve taught us the cure. Eli Hand

 

By Liivo Gorczyk