Holes
By Rosie Adams
Maybe you’d always had them, or maybe there’d been a terrible accident in the fuzzy time of shapes and colours, when your head was soft and couldn’t yet form lasting memories. You assumed that everyone had them somewhere. But the first day at school brought sidelong glances and openmouthed stares.
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Parking Lot
By John Bruce
The area where Bob worked was overstaffed, by about half a dozen people. In abilities, the whole group ranged from the routinely mediocre to the flagrantly nonfeasant, although the tasks assigned were mainly busywork and the number of people assigned to them was large, so nobody could be quite sure who was doing anything worthwhile.
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a note, a blush, a wing
By Defne Cizakca
When I was small, I used to steal from big malls. I would steal erasers with factory smells, pencils embedded with glittering horses, and fluffy pink feathered pen ends. When my mum first found out I stole, she cried and cried and said there was shame on me.
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The Snail
By Brindley Hallam Dennis
Once upon a time in a garden there was a big and very old snail. It had lived a long and dissatisfying life. It had spent many hours in deep contemplation of this perception, standing on the cold wet stone of the garden path in the shelter of drooping hosta leaves.
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Hiding in the Woods
By Matt Greenwood
7 minutes to go until lunch is over. I’ll stay here until there’s two minutes and 45 seconds to go. This will give me the right amount of time to walk directly to my English class, neither too fast or too slow, neither dawdling and conspicuously alone, nor rushing like I might be running away from someone, and walk into class without having to wait for the teacher to let us in.
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Inhabitation
By Graham Guest
Got a babysitter so J and I could go out to lunch for Valentine’s Day, despite the rain. Went well, except for her inhabitation.
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Tommy
By Suvi Mahonen
‘Oh you bastard!’ I slap at a mosquito.
I straighten and wipe my forehead with the back of my glove and feel mud smear on my skin. Taking off my glove I rub at it. My left thumb feels like it always does. Woollen, dull, thick. Like it’s wearing three layers of gloves on its own.
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Not another Maya Dream That Turns Prosy whilst Shooting Coke with Sigmund Freud
By Lee Sloca
She percolates,
“Mmm… coffee smells dark.”
I drip into the first person,
“Com’ on, cup of jo. Fifteen more minutes; I ain’t nobody. The world doesn’t need me nor will it miss me. Maybe in a couple of hours, I’ll brew myself in the second person. That might perk me up enough to get out of bed; otherwise be a sunshine and lighten my snooze button. It’s cooking outside so it’s best I go back to sleep.”
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Close
By Aimee Wilkinson
I am lying in bed. I am alone and I am listening to you. Through my curtains the morning sun kisses pink on my bedroom walls and casts the room in a rose tinted hue. My breathing is shallow and the cotton sheets caress my naked skin as my chest rises. My hands rest by my sides, my fingers spread wide like starfish on the blue sheets.
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Limbo
By Claire Zhang
Sometimes, in the fickle weather of southern Florida, buttery sunshine will morph into torrential downpour and bellowing thunder. She doesn’t notice the way her room turns into shadowy grays for a while, but then she chances a glimpse. It is then she stares for a moment, enthralled by the beautiful power of the storm, how the rain beats down in thick sheets, slapping the concrete and whipping the plant life; or how the deep-throated rumbles of the thunder make her windowpane tremble with fear.
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