Stories Archive - Page 19 of 26

Latest Stories

White Ribbon, Grey Fur

Marisca Pichette

Briar coaxed her beat-up Volvo to reluctant life and headed down Route 116 toward the gas station. Briar’s father had run the gas station before the witches killed him, turned his organs to wind chimes that clacked soft music through the woods. They rolled his hair into hay bales. In the dark pre-dawn, Briar drove past their silhouettes, wheels of grass and sinew moist with dew.

39 Pies

Brian Rowe

It’s three minutes past seven on a rainy Monday night, and Keaton Montgomery can’t decide on the brand of apples to put in his cart. Growing up, he always thought there were three—red, green, and yellow. His mother used to buy the delicious golden yellows, never a week passing when the fruit basket on the […]

On Nights With No Moon

Christopher Zerby

Henry loved the way the flowers sang. “They sound like wind blowing through an arctic canyon,” he said. “Like a children’s choir. But a good one, you know? Not cheesy.” His head lay on my chest and he pushed it into my hand, asking me to keep playing with his hair while I tried to […]

Generation Proxima

Vinny Panepinto

It would’ve been chrome if Juno waited ’til after this final exam to break up with me. I knew it was coming eventually—I don’t have my head completely in the airlock. But she’s got a real knack for timing. We’re in line for routine hormone checks, of all places—the whole class lined up to get […]

Drip

Aakriti Karun

There was a time I thought a great deal about our sink faucet. It was a sorry little thing—rusted in some places, stained in others. It sat in the space opposite our kitchen—the washbasin once white, now brown. It’d been touched with hands smeared with curry or paint or snot—and each interaction had left its scar, marked it in a way that was repulsive and pitiful. At one point the handle had gotten so dirty we started to grip it with a rag cloth when we washed our hands. No one wanted to be the one to do the gripping.

This Time Tomorrow

Aika Yamagawa

“I’m telling you—no one’s gonna die tonight,” the lunatic on the TV says. I’ve seen him before. He stands on the sidewalk outside the bakery on Tuesdays and waves tracts in people’s faces. “This catastrophe that everyone’s hysterical about, it’s just not going to happen. The very notion that there’s a cosmic entity—a God, if […]

The Dollhouse

Georgene Smith Goodin

On Black Friday, my father cleaned up the garden shed, neatly stacking the bags of cedar mulch, and sweeping up the pine needles which blew in whenever the door was open.

Lana, in the Bathroom

Christine Butterworth-McDermott

After Lana comes home, she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leans her forehead against the cool wood, and notices how the shapes of the grain curve in and out of themselves— tiny lines that undulate in small tan and caramel waves. She pushes the small button in the middle of the knob […]

Hold Your Breath

K.C. Mead-Brewer

Toe-curling things happen down at The Lake House. Sex, of course, and howling and injuries and a couple of disappearances, drownings, and once a kid hanged himself from the loft banister and another time a handful of teenagers tore out of there claiming that the walls had started bleeding, and no, they weren’t high, why would you even ask that.

Stage Makeup

Olivia Martello

i. I wore black pants, a white button-down, and shiny black dress shoes that pinched my toes. My feet had grown like weeds over the summer, and I hadn’t broken in these new ones yet. They were still a bit squeaky as I paced around the other boys in the dressing room, watching Jamie, the […]

There is Not an Alligator in the Sewer

Nathaniel Lee

Harrison Burke sat on a park bench at midnight with a sack of six Burgerito’s bacon double cheeseburgers and a giant alligator. Harrison had not been sleeping well lately. Or at all, really.

Living in A Dead Father’s Existence

Ahmad Adedimeji Amobi

Dear Baba, I sit my mother down this morning to dig from her throat everything about you. I have been hearing about you in bits while peeling cassava with my brother, Ridwan, or while sieving the soaked cassava into a bowl of water, or while sitting down outside when heat beat us out of our […]

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