Recent Stories
The Cyborg was positively throbbing. I could feel the bass in my chest and my bones rattled so heavily with the beat that I felt I was going to fly apart any minute now. Who would miss me if I did? Flixers wouldn't care, and the Trappets sure as hell wouldn't notice. Besides, the night outside was still dripping from the constant rains that washed the shit down the gutters and made the pedestrians crouch into themselves like dark turtles looking for an empty hole.
The Cyborg, on the other hand, was one of those holes. Brightly lit nanos crawled over the walls and each other, each one flashing a different color. Together they spelled out the day's specials, the drink of the day that the bar was pushing, and provided background pulses of rapid eye-gouging color that assaulted vision like the music assaulted hearing.
Eda danced through the glade, her wings fluttering to keep her footsteps light. It was the eve of her thirtieth birthday, the day she would become a grown fae, and still she found herself breaking the rules. This part of the forest was forbidden. There were scary stories whispered around the fires that monsters crept in the shadows, towering beasts who spear her kind to walls for decoration. Some tales said the monsters would take blades and cut fae open to see their insides.
But Eda was on the cusp of adulthood. She knew there was no such thing as humans.
Vander raced across the college campus, dodging people left and right, in hopes of making it to class before they locked the doors. Rounding the last corner, he narrowly avoided a faculty member with a large stack of books. Vander chanced a quick look back to make sure the professor was all right, and as he did so, crashed into something, ricocheting backward and landing hard on the ground. Looking up, he discovered that he had apparently run into, and also knocked down, the most attractive girl he had ever seen.
But she seemed to have popped up out of nowhere.
On a humid night in mid-July, Emily can't sleep. Her hand keeps sliding into the cool open space on the far side of the mattress. She slips out of bed and pads down the hall into the kitchen. The breakfast barstool screeches when she pulls it out, but there's no one in the house to wake. The wall calendar from the bank has a picture of some lake up north for this month; Emily flips ahead to August's verdant farm, to September's antique schoolhouse. She counts the days from here to there, as she has a hundred times before.
by Dale and Kristine Hansen
Published on Feb 15, 2019
by Connor Sassmannshausen
Published on Feb 14, 2019
by Brendan T Stallings
Published on Feb 13, 2019
by Daniel Rosen
Thirteen
By thirteen, most of the boys have their bees. By sixteen, even the late bloomers have matured, hives jutting out from under their skin, sculpting their jawlines. Bees deepen boy's voices, giving their words a hollow, buzzing tone. Like boys, bees themselves come in many shapes and sizes.
Published on Feb 12, 2019
by Paavo Saari
David spent all day in his media center, reading the news. In this sense he was no different than every other middle class person in the country. Every day he sat, and absorbed new information. He had just finished reading an article about the war. The article said that war was bad because it killed innocent people. He agreed. He was very thankful he had read that article. If he hadn't, his opinion of the war would have been incorrect.
It had been years since David had had an opinion about a part of his own life. No journalist was writing about it. His own life had no statistics to analyze, no primary sources.
Published on Feb 11, 2019
by Aimee Ogden
Published on Feb 8, 2019
